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THE POEMS 



OF 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION 

BY 

WILLIAM P. TRENT 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 

PUBLISHERS 



\ ^\ r O 



r'\^^A 




74119 



Copyright, igoo, 
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 



CONTENTS. 



A Child' 


s Garden of Verses 


I. 


Bed in Summer 


11. 


A Thought 


III. 


At the Sea-side 


IV. 


Young Night Thought 


V. 


Whole Duty of Children . 


VI. 


Rain . . . . 


VII. 


Pirate Story 


VIII. 


Foreign Lands 


IX. 


Windy Nights . 


X. 


Travel . . . . 


XI. 


Singing . . . . 


XII. 


Looking Forward 


XIII. 


A Good Play . 


XIV. 


Where go the Boats 


XV. 


Auntie's Skirts 


XVI. 


The Land of Counterpane 


XVII. 


The Land of Nod . 


XVIII. 


My Shadow 


XIX. 


System 


XX. 


A Good Boy . 


XXI, 


Escape at Bedtime . 


XXII. 


Marching S(jng 


XXIII. 


The Cow . . . . 



13 
14 
17 

18 

19 

20 

21 

22 

23 
24 
26 
27 
29 
31 
32 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



XXIV. Happy Thought . 
XXV. The Wind . 
XXVI. Keepsake Mill . 
XXVII. Good and Bad Children 
XXVIII. Foreign Children 
XXIX. The Sun's Travels 
XXX. The Lamplighter 
XXXI. My Bed is a Boat 
XXXII. The Moon . 

XXXIII. The Swing . 

XXXIV. Time to Rise 
XXXV, Looking-glass River . 

XXXVI. Fairy Bread 
XXXVIL From a Railway Carriage 
XXXVIII. Winter-Time 
XXXIX. The Hayloft 

XL. Farewell to the Farm . 
XLI. North-west Passage . 

The Child Alone .... 
I. The Unseen Playmate 
II. My Ship and I . 

III. My Kingdom 

IV. Picture-Books in W'inter 
V. My Treasures 

VI. Block City . 

VII. The Land of Story-Books 

VIII. Armies in the Fire 

IX. The Little Land . 



Garden Days . 

I. Night and Day 
II. Nest Eggs . 



CONTENTS. 



III. The Flowers 

IV. Summer Sun 

V. The Dumb Soldier . 

VI. Autumn Fires . 

VII. The Gardener . 

VIII. Historical Associations 



Envoys 

I. To Willie and Henrietta 
II. To my Mother . 

III. To Auntie . 

IV. To Minnie 

V. To my Name-Child . 
VI. To Any Reader 



The Song of RAHfeRO 
The Feast of Famine 

TiCONDEROGA . 



Heather Ale 



Christmas at Sea 



Underwoods . 

Book I. — In English 
I. Envoy 
II. A Song of the Road 

III. The Canoe speaks . 

IV. It is the Season now to Go 
V. The House Beautiful 

VI. A Visit from the Sea 



vi 


CONTENTS. 






VII. 


To a Gardener 


VIII. 


To Minnie 




. 


IX. 


To K. de M. . 




. 


X. 


To N. V. de G. S. . 




. 


XL 


To Will. H. Low . 






XII. 


To Mrs. Will. H. Low . 






XIII. 


To H. F. Brown 






XIV. 


To Andrew Lang . 






XV. 


Et tu in Arcadia Vixisti . 






XVI. 


To W. E. Henley . 






XVII. 


Henry James . 






XVIII. 


The Mirror speaks . 






XIX. 


Katharine 






XX. 


To F. J. S. . 






XXI. 


Requiem 






XXII. 


The Celestial Surgeon . 






XXIII. 


Our Lady of the Snows . 






XXIV. 


Not yet, my Soul . 






XXV. 


It is not yours, O Mother 






XXVI. 


The Sick Child 






XXVII. 


In Memoriam F. A. S. . 






XXVIII. 


To my Father 






XXIX. 


In the States . 






XXX. 


A Portrait 






XXXI. 


Sing Clear lier, Muse 






XXXII. 


A Camp 






XXXIII. 


The Country of the Camisards 






XXXIV. 


Skerryvore . 






XXXV. 


Skerryvore; the Parallel 






XXXVI. 


My House, I say . 






XXXVII. 


My Body, which my Dungeon is 




XXXVIII. 


Say not of me that Weakly I 


Decli 


ned . 



CONTENTS. vii 



Book II. — In Scots 

I. The Maker to Posterity . 
XL Ille Terrarum .... 

III. When Aince xAprile has fairly come 

IV. A Mile an' a Bittock 
V. A Lowden Sabbath Morn 

VI. The Spaewife .... 

VII. The Blast— 1875 .... 
VIII. The Counterblast— 18S6 
IX. The Counterblast Ironical 
X. Their Laureate to an Academy Class 
Dinner Club .... 

• XI. Embro Hie Kirk .... 
XII. The Scotsman's Return from Abroad 

XIII. Late in the Nicht .... 

XIV. My Conscience ! . . . . 
XV. To Doctor John Brown . 

XVI. It's an Owercome Sooth for x\ge an' 

Youth 376 



PAGE 

324 
327 

33^ 

333 
335 
343 
345 
347 
351 



353 
357 
361 
366 

370 

372 



INTRODUCTION. 

It is quite plain from passages in his recently pub- 
lished correspondence that, while Stevenson took not 
a little interest in his verses and had a poet's proper 
ambitions, he did not conceive himself to be an adept 
in the poetic art. In this regard his rare critical 
faculty did not betray him. He was pa)' excellence a 
writer of prose romances, and, unlike many other 
famous authors, had few illusions about his work in 
the higher category. He did not, like his great pred- 
ecessor, Scott, begin with poetry and descend to 
prose ; but he was just as willing to disclaim all seri- 
ous aspirations for the laurel crown as Scott was to 
resign to Byron the '" hallowed bays "' which the lat- 
ter had twitted him with unworthily receiving from 
"Milton, Dryden, Pope alike forgot."'' 

Yet the world has not been willing to remember 
Scott in one role only, and it is quite likely that it will 
pursue the same course with regard to Stevenson. 
Perhaps it may even go so far as to forget the younger 
writer's fiction, save that ''Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll 
and Mr. Hyde," the central conception of which is 
too powerful to be easily forgotten, and to remember 
him rather as the author of " A Child's Garden of 
Verses" and of sundry excellent poems, letters, and 



X INTRODUCTION. 

essays, than as the versatile romancer who charmed 
his own generation. Verse, as we all know, if it be 
above mediocrity, has a better chance of life than 
prose ; its finer qualities, especially that of compres- 
sion, make for it a place in our memories, or at least in 
our anthologies. 

Now Stevenson's verse, whether or not he was what 
we know as a " born poet,"' was in some important 
respects distinctly above mediocrity. Those of his 
contemporaries, therefore, who admired and loved it 
have little need to be ashamed of the favor they 
showed it ; while those who stood aloof from him in 
his various roles would do well to reexamine this seg- 
ment of his multifarious work before they calmly 
assign him to oblivion as a clever, attractive man who 
filled a larger space in the workPs regard than his 
actual merits justified. To the ardent Stevensonian, 
of course, a hint that partial oblivion may overtake 
his favorite — that weaver of romances whose own life 
was a romance of devoted heroism, that generous, 
sympathetic critic, that truest of friends, that exqui- 
sitely poetical soul — will seem to be quite ridiculous ; 
but time has often made wrecks of greater reputations 
than Stevenson's, and his discreet friends need not be 
sorry that they have in the present volume a collec- 
tion of verses which future anthologists are quite sure 
to rifle. Perhaps, however, it will be as well if we let 
Stevenson's fame take care of itself and turn our atten- 
tion to his poetry. 

Setting aside his occasional poems, some of which, 
as we read them in the two volumes of delightful let- 



INTRODUCTION. xi 

ters Mr. Colvin has just given us, seem to prove con- 
clusively that if Stevenson had only tried he could 
have easily rivalled Thackeray or Calverley as a 
writer of humorous vers de sociefc, our author's poetry 
divides itself naturally, as he saw, into three parts, rep- 
resented by the volumes entitled "A Child's Garden 
of Verses" (1885), " Underwoods " (1887), and - Bal- 
lads '' (1890). When after his death his unpublished 
and scattered verses were collected, they quite inevi- 
tably made a third book of '' Underwoods "" with the 
title of '• Songs of Travel and Other Verses ''' (1896). 
In other words, Stevenson wrote poems for the young, 
short pieces upon occasional subjects much as Ben 
Jonson, from whom he borrowed the title '' Under- 
woods,""' had done before him, and narrative poems in 
ballad form upon South Sea and Highland legends. 
The body of verse thus brought together was large 
enough to serve as a basis for a very high, though 
probably not the highest, poetic fame ; in range, the 
matter of quality being waived, it was sufficiently com- 
prehensive to place the poet above the crowded class 
of the merely minor writers of verse. Although he 
died young, he had nevertheless passed the age when 
many poets begin to flag in originality. It follows, 
therefore, that Stevenson's poetry should not be 
treated as a mere aside in a busy life — there is evi- 
dence enough in the '■'■ Letters '" that he devoted seri- 
ous thought to it — that he had as fair a chance to 
win high poetic fame as many another poet who has 
made his name a household word, and that in the 
determination of his rank as a poet the main question 



xii INTRODUCTION. 

relates to the quality of his work. What, then, is the 
quality of each of the three divisions ? 

With regard to " A Child's Garden of Verses," 
which was begun in the summer of 1881 at Braemar 
during one of the few visits the already chronic inva- 
lid dared to make to his beloved Highlands, and was 
practically finished at Hyeres in the spring of 1883, 
after he had as it were found his vocation in "Treas- 
ure Island,'^ few competent readers have ever had the 
least doubt that it is a masterpiece of its kind. 
Stevenson, in his humorous way, called it for a long 
time " Penny Whistles " ; but the characteristic letter 
in which he told his old nurse, Alison Cunningham, 
that he intended to dedicate it to her proves, if proof 
be needed, that he must have felt that he was doing 
a piece of work altogether admirable. His childhood 
had been checkered with illness, but it had been that 
rare thing in these modern days, a real childhood. 
Indeed, he never throughout his life ceased to be 
a child, as an acute French critic, M. de Wyzewa 
has recently remarked apropos of the correspondence. 
Hence, when he laid out his " Garden,'' he actually 
took walks in it, he swung in its trees, peeped over 
its wall. He made a wonderfully successful book 
because he based it on real experience, just as Daudet 
had done a few years before in the first part of •■' Le 
Petit Chose,'' that delightful picture of French boyhood. 
He put himself into it, and as he was still half a child, 
and as all children, whether British or French or 
Samoan, delighted him and he them, he was sure to 
please every juvenile reader, while, being his whimsi- 



INTRODUCTION. xiii 

cal, clever, lovable self, he was sure to please adult 
readers just as much or more. It was this realistic 
element of his work that made the poem beginning, — 

" We built a ship upon the stairs 
All made of the back-bedroom chairs, 
And filled it full of sofa pillows 
To go a-sailing on the billows," 

a chef-d'ceuvre of poetry for the young, as many a 
mother can testify. It was this same element that 
gave the irresistible touch, so far as adults are con- 
cerned, to these four lines : — 

" When I am grown to man's estate 
I shall be very proud and great. 
And tell the other girls and boys 
Not to meddle with my toys." 

Such touches are absent from Blake's '' Songs of 
Innocence," and hence these divine poems, which of 
course represent poetic heights to which Stevenson 
did not attain, have never been really popular with 
either old or young. It may seem odd to speak of 
realism in connection with the romantic Stevenson ; 
but when we set his work beside that of an idealist 
like Blake, we see that realism is the only term we can 
properly use, and that it goes far toward explaining the 
success the " Garden *' has had and is likely to con- 
tinue to have. 

It is, perhaps, odder still, however, to go on prosing 
about such exquisite, fragile works of art — or nature 
if you will — as these delightful poems. What has 
the heavy-handed critic to do with them ? Nothing, 



xiv INTRODUCTION, 

surely, save to wish that he could be a child once 
more in order really to enjoy them. As a child he 
would not notice the few infelicities which as a dis- 
creet man he refrains from specifying. He would 
simply class Stevenson as a benefactor along with 
" Lewis Carroll " and Edward Lear and our own 
Whitcomb Riley, and would not concern himself with 
questions of relative originality and merit, or with the 
fact that the " Garden '' is after all but a mere fra- 
grant parterre in the wide domain of the greater 
writer's works. 

Passing to " Underwoods," however, we find more 
for the critic to do ; yet, when we can secure so com- 
petent a critic as Stevenson, and when we find that 
he is remarkably disinterested with regard to his own 
work, why should we go farther ? 

In May, 1883, Stevenson was evidently trying his 
hand on verses for older readers. He wrote to Mr. 
W. E. Henley : " I am now a great wTiter of verses. 
... I have the mania now like my betters, and 
faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a book of 
rhymes like Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. 
Really, I have begun to learn the rudiments of that 
trade, and have written three or four pretty enough 
pieces of octosyllabic nonsense, semi-serious, semi- 
smiling ; a kind of prose Herrick divested of the gift 
of verse, and you behold the Bard. But I like it.'" 

This is eminently sane — an understatement, to 
be sure, but based on clear perceptions. Stevenson 
was a kinsman of Herrick, but he did not have the 
latter's gift of singing. Indeed, who has had it 
among the moderns .'' 



INTRODUCTION. xv 

Four years later, when he was getting in sight of 
forty, the occasional verses had grown into the vol- 
ume he anticipated. In September, 1887, he wrote to 
Mr. Sidney Colvin : '' The success of ' Underwoods ' is 
gratifying. You see the verses are sane ; that is their 
strong point, and it seems it is strong enough to carry 
them." Again his criticism was singularly acute and 
just. The verses were sane, and furnished a most 
wholesome and pleasant contrast to the triolets and 
rondeaux and other delicate though rather decadent 
poems with which the readers of the day had been 
satiated. They did not play upon the chords of racial 
pride and prejudice, or open up a new region for the 
imagination to wander in, as the verses of Mr, Kip- 
ling were soon to do ; but they pleased Stevenson's 
friends and won him others. On December 6, of the 
same year, he was able to write as follows to his 
friend John Addington Symonds : " I wonder if you 
saw my book of verses ? It went into a second 
edition, because of my name, I suppose, and its prose 
merits. I do not set up to be a poet ; only an all- 
round literary man : a man who talks, not one who 
sings. But I believe the very fact that it was only 
speech served the book with the public. Horace is 
much a speaker, and see how popular ! . . . Excuse 
this little apology for my house ; but I don't like to 
come before people who have a note of song, and let 
it be supposed I do not know the difference.""' 

Further quotations are needless, save one from a 
letter to Mr. Colvin written December 14, 1886, in 
which, after announcing that he has been takint{ his 



xvi INTRODUCTION. 

^' bardly exercises '' in Scotch, he adds, '' with what 
success, I know not, but I think it "s better than my 
English verse : more marrow and fatness, and more 
ruggedness." 

It is as easy to disagree with this last particular 
judgment as it is to agree with Stevenson's general 
estimate of his performance in verse. The sixteen 
Scotch poems are assuredly not bad, but too many of 
them suggest that the writer knew his Burns and his 
Fergusson, for the latter of whom he had a most gen- 
erous affection, a little over well. His own authentic 
voice seems to come out most clearly and strongly 
when, as in the last poem of the collection, lie aban- 
dons the stanza they have preempted, and sings 
simply and truly as in these lines : — 

" There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill 
And fools to take and break them ; 
But the nearest friends are the auldest friends 
And the grave 's the place to seek them." 

One Scotch word alone flavors this stanza, but do 
we want any more ? It must not be supposed, how- 
ever, that he does not write well in more or less pure 
Scotch. The letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. John- 
stone, with its praise — not in Burns's stanza — of 
Scotch whiskey and Scotch preaching, is excellent. 
There are first-rate lines and stanzas too, such as 



and 



" The tack o' mankind, near the dregs, 
Rins unco law " ; 

" Love, \vi' her auld recruitin' drum 
Than taks the gate " ; 



INTRODUCTION. xvii 

and 

" Ane went hame \vi' the ither, an' then 
The ither went hame wi' the ither twa men, 
An' baith wad return him the service again, 
An' the miine was shinin' clearly." 

Yet even here do we not seem to catch a note of 
Burns? And are not the letters written in Scotch,, 
especially that of November 13, 1884, to Charles Bax- 
ter, in some ways more remarkable than the verses — 
andvat least unsuggestive of " exercises " — '• bardly " 
or other? 

As for the English poems, whether of 1887 or of 
1896, although not great, they are often very delightful 
and occasionally linger in the memory. They lack 
poetical elaboration, their author being either obliged 
or tempted to work his octosyllabics and other simple 
measures almost to the point of exhaustion ; yet after 
all much of the charm that undoubtedly attends the 
verses comes from their unelaboration which in turn 
comes from Stevenson's sincerity and sanity. What 
matters it if octosyllabics do tend to become slipshod 
when they are used by a man who can give us lines 
like these? 

" Yet shall your ragged moor receive 
The incomparable pomp of eve. 
And the cold glories of the dawn 
Behind your shivering trees be drawn." 

What matter again if the ''envoy "' be plain Herrick, 
if Catullus did write his " Phaselus ille ''' nearly two 
thousand years before Stevenson thought of letting 



xviii INTRODUCTION, 

his own canoe make a pretty speech that was never 
finished ? What matter if such Hnes as 

" Service still craving service, love for love, 
Love for dear love, still suppliant with tears," 

are pure Tennyson, when it is abundantly clear that 
our poet, who would " one natural verse recapture," 
had his wish granted over and often? The author of 
" The House Beautiful," '• To a Cxardener," '' Et Tu 
in Arcadia Vixisti/' " Requiem," " Our Lady of the 
Snows," " In Memoriam — F. A. S.," '• Sing clearlier. 
Muse " — and these titles by no means exhaust the 
list of good or excellent poems — has a full right to 
say, with Alfred de Musset, that his glass may be a 
small one, but that it is his own. 

Nor is Stevenson at his best only in such unelabo- 
rate appealing stanzas as 

" This be the verse you grave for me : 
//ere he lies tvhere he longed to be ; 
//onie is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill!' 

He is capable of blank verse that satisfies the most 
fastidious ear and of imaginative passages that greater 
poets would not have disdained. Take for example 
these fine lines from '• Et Tu in Arcadia Vixisti." 

" As when the Indian to Dakota comes 
Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt, 
He with his clan, a humming city finds ; 
Thereon a while, amazed, he stares, and then 
To right and leftward, like a questing dog, 
Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth 



INTRODUCTION. xix 

Long cold with rains, and where old terror lodged, 
And where the dead. So thee undying Hope, 
With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years : 
Here, there, thou fleeest ; but nor here nor there 
The pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells." 

Perhaps the cultured reader may connect this pas- 
sage in a vague way with the Homeric simile as util- 
ized^by Matthew Arnold, he may even think of the 
movement of some of Bryant's stately verses, but if 
he is wise he will merely re-read the lines and enjoy 
them. If they effect nothing else, they will at least 
prove an antidote to some of Stevenson's lapses, as 
for example when he thus apostrophizes Mr. Henley, — 

" O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard 
And the deliverer, touch the stops again ! " 

or when he discovers in our own distinguished country- 
man in exile, Mr. Henry James, ''■ the Prince of Men." 
With regard to the five poems grouped as " Bal- 
lads,'' the less said the better. It is evident from 
many passages in his letters that Stevenson was much 
interested in them during their composition, that he 
thought that they at least had narrative merits, and 
that he hoped the public would enjoy them. It is 
equally evident, however, that, as in much of his seri- 
ously planned prose devoted to the South Seas, he 
failed of his purpose. The public remained cold. 
Even so devoted an admirer as Mr. Colvin does not 
pretend to like the " Ballads." At least one reader 
who in the main enjoys Stevenson would rather re-read 
" The Island," that far from great performance of 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

Byron, who never saw the Pacific, than these verses of 
Stevenson, who knew the South Seas as probably no 
other EngHsh writer has ever done. Perhaps some 
readers will care for them simply because they deal 
with out-of-the-way subjects ; but others will find 
their main profit in reflecting that we have in them a 
striking additional proof of the fact that great con- 
scientiousness, knowledge, and industrious devotion 
on the part of a poet will not suffice to turn his verses 
into poetry. 

It does not seem fair, however, to take leave of so 
admirable a writer as Stevenson with such negations 
and reservations. If his note is not often that of the 
born singer, it is never less than that of a brave, true 
man whose abundant culture and his feeble health did 
not deaden his love for his fellows or his capacity for 
making life a pleasure and a service. His poetry 
does not represent him fully ; no phase of his multi- 
farious w^ork does that, and perhaps his fame will 
ultimately suflfer through the fact ; but at least his 
verses are not factitious, they are a definite if small 
addition to our literature, and they give a crowning 
grace to the fascinating life-work of a singularly noble 
character. 

W. P. TRENT. 

February 28, 1900. 



A CHILD'S GARDEN OF 
VERSES. 



I. 

BED IN SUMMER. 

In winter I get up at night 
And dress by yellow candle-light. 
In summer, quite the other way, 
I have to go to bed by day. 

I have to go to bed and see 
The birds still hopping on the tree, 
Or hear the grown-up people's feet 
Still going past me in the street. 

And does it not seem hard to you, 
When all the sky is clear and blue, 
And I should like so much to play, 
To have to go to bed by day? 



II. 

A THOUGHT. 

It is very nice to think 
The world is full of meat and drink, 
With little children saying grace 
In every Christian kind of place. 



III. 

AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

When I was down beside the sea 
A wooden spade they gave to me 
To dig the sandy shore. 

My holes were empty like a cup. 
In every hole the sea came up, 
Till it could come no more. 



IV. 

YOUNG NIGHT THOUGHT, 

All night long and every night, 
When my mama puts out the light, 
I see the people marching by, 
As plain as day, before my eye. 

Armies and emperors and kings. 
All carrying different kinds of things, 
And marching in so grand a way. 
You never saw the like by day. 

So fine a show was never seen 
At the great circus on the green; 
For every kind of beast and man 
Is marching in that caravan. 

At first they move a little slow, 
But still the faster on they go. 
And still beside them close I keep 
Until we reach the town of Sleep. 



V. 

WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN. 

A CHILD should always say what's true 
And speak when he is spoken to, 
And behave mannerly at table; 
At least as far as he is able. 



VI 

RAIN. 

The rain is raining all around, 
It falls on field and tree, 

It rains on the umbrellas here, 
And on the ships at sea. 



VII. 

PIRATE STORY. 

Three of us afloat in the meadow by the 
swing, 
Three of us aboard in the basket on the lea. 
Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the 
spring, 
And waves are on the meadow like the waves 
there are at sea. 

Where shall we adventure, to-day that we 're 
afloat. 

Wary of the weather and steering by a star? 
Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat, 

To Providence, or Babylon, or off to Malabar ? 

Hi ! but here 's a squadron a-rowing on the 
sea — 
Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a 
roar ! 

9 



10 PIRATE STORY. 

Quick, and sve '11 escape them, they 're as mad 
as they can be, 
The wicket is the harbour and the garden is 
the shore. 



VIII. 

FOREIGN LANDS. 

Up into the cherry tree 

Who should dimb but httle me? 

I held the trunk with both my hands 

And looked abroad on foreign lands. 

I saw the next door garden lie, 
Adorned with flowers, before m}- eye, 
And many pleasant places more 
That I had never seen before. 

I saw the dimpling river pass 
And be the sky's blue looking-glass; 
The dusty roads go up and down 
With people tramping in to town. 

If I could find a higher tree 
Farther and farther I should see, 
To where the grown-up river slips 
Into the sea among the ships, 
11 



12 FOREIGN LANDS. 

To where the roads on either hand 
Lead onward into fliiry land, 
Where all the children dine at five, 
And all the playthings come alive. 



IX. 
WINDY NIGHTS. 

Whenever the moon and stars are set, 

Whenever the wind is high, 
All night long in the dark and wet, 

A man goes riding by. 
Late in the night when the fires are out. 
Why does he gallop and gallop about? • 

W^henever the trees are crying aloud, 

And ships are tossed at sea. 
By, on the highway, low and loud. 

By at the gallop goes he. 
By at the gallop he goes, and then 
By he comes back at the gallop again. 



13 



X. 

TRAVEL. 

I SHOULD like to rise and go 
Where the golden apples grow; — 
Where below another sky 
Parrot islands anchored lie, 
And, watched by cockatoos and goats, 
Lonely Crusoes building boats; — 
Where in sunshine reaching out 
Eastern cities, miles about, 
Are with mosque and minaret 
Among sandy gardens set, 
And the rich goods from near and far 
Hang for sale in the bazaar; — 
Where the Great Wall round China goes. 
And on one side the desert blows, 
And with bell and voice and drum, 
Cities on the other hum; — 
Where are forests, hot as fire. 
Wide as England, tall as a spire, 
14 



TRAVEL. 15 

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts 
And the negro hunters' huts; — 
Where the knotty crocodile 
Lies and blinks in the Nile, 
And the red flamingo flies 
Hunting fish before his eyes; — 
Where in jungles, near and far, 
Man-devouring tigers are, 
Lying close and giving ear 
Lest the hunt be drawing near, 
Or a comer-by be seen 
Swinging in a palanquin; — 
Where among the desert sands 
Some deserted city stands, 
All its children, sweep and prince, 
Grown to manhood ages since. 
Not a foot in street or house. 
Not a stir of child or mouse, 
And when kindly falls the night, 
In all the town no spark of light. 
There I '11 come when I 'm a man 
With a camel caravan; 
Light a fire in the gloom 
Of some dusty dining room; 



16 TRAVEL 

See the pictures on the walls, 
Heroes, fights and festivals; 
And in a corner find the toys 
Of the old Egyptian boys. 



XI. 

SINGING. 

Of speckled eggs the birdie sings 
And nests among the trees; 

The sailor sings of ropes and things 
In ships upon the seas. 

The children sing in far Japan, 
The children sing in Spain; 

The organ with the organ man 
Is singing in the rain. 



17 



XII. 

LOOKING FORWARD. 

When I am grown to man's estate 
I shall be very proud and great, 
And tell the other girls and boys 
Not to meddle with my toys. 



18 



XIII. 

A GOOD PLAY. 

We built a ship upon the stairs 
All made of the back-bedroom chairs, 
And filled it full of sofa pillows 
To go a-sailing on the billows. 

We took a saw and several nails, 
And water in the nursery pails; 
And Tom said, " Let us also take 
An apple and a slice of cake;" — 
Which was enough for Tom and me 
To go a-sailing on, till tea. 

We sailed along for days and days, 
And had the very best of plays; 
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, 
So there was no one left but me. 



19 



XIV. 
WHERE GO THE BOATS? 

Dark brown is the river, 

Golden is the sand. 
It flows along for ever, 

With trees on either hand. 

Green leaves a-floating, 

Castles of the foam, 
Boats of mine a-boating — 

Where will all come home? 

On goes the river 

And out past the mill, 

Away down the valley, 
Away down the hill. 

Away down the river, 

A hundred miles or more. 

Other little children 

Shall bring my boats ashore. 
20 



XV. 

AUNTIE'S SKIRTS. 

Whenever Auntie moves around, 
Her dresses make a curious sound; 
They trail behind her up the floor, 
And trundle after through the door. 



21 



XVI. 

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE. 

When I was sick and lay a-bed, 
I had two pillows at my head, 
And all my toys beside me lay 
To keep me happy all the day. 

And sometimes for an hour or so 
I watched my leaden soldiers go, 
With different uniforms and drills, 
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills; 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets 
All up and down among the sheets; 
Or brought my trees and houses out, 
And planted cities all about. 

I was the giant great and still 
That sits upon the pillow-hill. 
And sees before him, dale and plain, 
The pleasant land of counterpane. 
22 




The Land of the Counterpane. 



XVII. 

THE LAND OF NOD. 

Froi\i breakfast on through all the day 
At home among my friends I stay; 
But every night I go abroad 
Afar into the land of Nod. 

All by myself I have to go, 

With none to tell me what to do — 

All alone beside the streams 

And up the mountain-sides of dreams. 

The strangest things are there for me, 
Both things to eat and things to see, 
x^nd many frightening sights abroad 
Till morning in the land of Nod. 

Try as I like to find the way, 
I never can get back by day. 
Nor can remember plain and clear 
The curious music that I hear. 
23 



XVIII. 
MY SHADOW. 

I HAVE a little shadow that goes in and out with 

me, 
And what can be the use of him is more than 

I can see. 
He is very, very like me from the heels up to 

the head; 
And I see him jump before me, when I jump 

into my bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he 
likes to grow — 

Not at all like proper children, which is always 
very slow; 

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india- 
rubber ball, 

And he sometimes gets so little that there 's 
none of him at all. 
24 



MY SHADOIV. 25 

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought 

to play, 
And can only make a fool of me in every sort 

of way. 
He stays so close beside me, he 's a coward 

you can see; 
I 'd think shame to stick to nursie as that 

shadow sticks to me ! 

One morning, very early, before the sun was 

up, 
I rose and found the shining dew on every 

buttercup ; 
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant 

sleepy-head. 
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast 

asleep in bed. 



XIX. 

SYSTEM. 

Every night my prayers I say, 
And get my dinner every day; 
And every day that I 've been good, 
I get an orange after food. 

The child that is not clean and neat, 
With lots of toys and things to eat, 
He is a naughty child, I'm sure — 
Or else his dear papa is poor. 



26 



XX. 

A GOOD BOY. 

I WOKE before the morning, I was happy all 

the day, 
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and 

stuck to play. 

And now at last the sun is going down behind 

the wood. 
And I am very happy, for I know that I 've 

been good. 

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen 

smooth and fair, 
And I must off to sleepsin-by, and not forget 

my prayer. 

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun 

arise, 
No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly 

sight my eyes. 

27 



28 A GOOD BOY. 

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in 

the dawn, 
And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs 

round the lawn. 



XXI. 

ESCAPE AT BEDTIME. 

The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone 
out 
Through the blinds and the windows and 
bars; 
And high overhead and all moving about, 

There were thousands of millions of stars. 
There ne'er were such thousands of leaves on 
a tree, 
Nor of people in church or the Park, 
As the crowds of the stars that looked down 
upon me, 
And that glittered and winked in the dark. 

The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and 
all. 
And the star of the sailor, and Mars, 
These shone in the sky, and the pail by the 
wall 
Would be half full of water and stars. 
• 29 



30 ESCAPE AT BEDTIME. 

They saw me at last, and they chased me with 
cries, 
And they soon had me packed into bed; 
But the glory kept shining and bright in my 
eyes, 
And the stars going round in my head. 



XXII. 
MARCHING SONG. 

Bring the comb and play upon it! 

Marching, here we come ! 
Willie cocks his highland bonnet, 

Johnnie beats the drum. 

Mary Jane commands the party, 

Peter leads the rear; 
Feet in time, alert and hearty, 

Each a Grenadier! 

All in the most martial manner 

Marching double-quick; 
While the napkin like a banner 

Waves upon the stick! 

Here 's enough of fame and pillage. 

Great commander Jane ! 
Now that we 've been round the village. 

Let 's go home again. 
31 



XXIII. 
THE COW. 

The friendly cow all red and white, 

I love with all my heart: 
She gives me cream with all her might, 

To eat with apple-tart. 

She wanders lowing here and there, 

And yet she cannot stray, 
All in the pleasant open air, 

The pleasant light of day; 

And blown by all the winds that pass 
And wet with all the showers, 

She walks among the meadow grass 
And eats the meadow flowers. 



32 



XXIV. 

HAPPY THOUGHT. 

The world is so full of a number of things, 
I 'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 



33 



XXV. 

THE WIND. 

I SAW you toss the kites on high 
And blow the birds about the sky; 
And all around I heard you pass, 
Like ladies' skirts across the grass — 
O wind, a-blowing all day long, 
O wind, that sings so loud a song! 

I saw the different things you did, 
But always you yourself you hid. 
I felt you push, I heard you call, 
I could not see yourself at all — 
O wind, a-blowing all day long, 
O wind, that sings so loud a song! 

O you that are so strong and cold, 
O blower, are you young or old? 
Are you a beast of field and tree. 
Or just a stronger child than me? 
O wind, a-blowing all day long, 
O wind, that sings so loud a song! 
34 



XXVI. 
KEEPSAKE MILL. 

Over the borders, a sin without pardon, 
Breaking the branches and crawling below, 

Out through the breach in the wall of the 
garden, 
Down by the banks of the river, we go. 

Here is the mill with the humming of thunder, 
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam. 

Here is the sluice with the race running 
under — 
Marvellous places, though handy to home ! 

Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller, 
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill; 

Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller. 
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill. 

Years may go by, and the wheel in the river 
Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day, 
35 



36 KEEPSAKE MILL 

Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever 
Long after all of the boys are away. 

Home from the Indies and home from the 
ocean, 
Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home; 
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in 
motion, 
Turning and churning that river to foam. 

You with the bean that I gave when we quar- 
relled, 

I with your marble of Saturday last, 
Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled, 

Here we shall meet and remember the past. 



XXVII. 

GOOD AND BAD CHILDREN. 

Children, you are very little, 
And your bones are very brittle; 
If you would grow great and stately, 
You must try to walk sedately.. 

You must still be bright and quiet, 
And content with simple diet; 
And remain, through all bewild'ring, 
Innocent and honest children. 

Happy hearts and happy faces, 
Happy play in grassy places — 
That was how, in ancient ages, 
Children grew to kings and sages. 

But the unkind and the unruly, 
And the sort who eat unduly, 
37 



38 GOOD AND DAD CHILDREN. 

They must never hope for glory — 
Theirs is quite a different story! 

Cruel children, crying babies, 
All grow up as geese and gabies. 
Hated, as their age increases, 
By their nephews and their nieces. 



XXVIII. 

FOREIGN CHILDREN. 

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, 

Little frosty Eskimo, 

Little Turk or Japanee, 

O! don't you wish that you were me? 

You have seen the scarlet trees 
And the lions over seas; 
You have eaten ostrich eggs, 
And turned the turtles off their legs. 

Such a life is very fine, 
But it's not so nice as mine: 
You must often, as you trod, 
Have wearied not to be abroad. 

You have curious things to eat, 
I am fed on proper meat; 
39 



40 FOREIGN CHILDREN. 

You must dwell beyond the foam, 
But I am safe and live at home. 

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, 

Little frosty Eskimo, 

Little Turk or Japanee, 
O! don't you wish that you were me? 



XXIX. 

THE SUN'S TRAVELS. 

The sun is not a-bed, when T 

At night upon my pillow lie; 

Still round the earth his way he takes, 

And morning after morning makes. 

While here at home, in shining day. 
We round the sunny garden play, 
Each little Indian sleepy-head 
Is being kissed and put to bed. 

And when at eve I rise from tea, 
Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea; 
And all the children in the West 
Are getting up and being dressed. 



41 



XXX. 

THE LAMPLIGHTER, 

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left 

the sky; 
It's time to take the window to see Leerie 

going by; 
For every night at teatime and before you take 

your seat, 
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting 

up the street. 

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to 

sea, 
And my papa 's a banker and as rich as he 

can be; 
But I, when I am stronger and can choose 

what I 'm to do, 
O Leerie, I '11 go round at night and light the 

lamps with you ! 

42 



THE LAMPLIGHTER. 43 

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the 

door, 
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so 

many more; 
And O ! before you hurry by with ladder and 

with light, 
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him 

to-night! 



XXXI. 
MY BED IS A BOAT. 

My bed is like a little boat; 

Nurse helps me in when I embark; 
She girds me in my sailor's coat 

And starts me in the dark. 

At night, I go on board and say 

Good night to all my friends on shore; 

I shut my eyes and sail away 
And see and hear no more. 

And sometimes things to bed I take, 
As prudent sailors have to do; 

Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, 
Perhaps a toy or two. 

All night across the dark we steer; 

But when the day returns at last, 
Safe in my room, beside the pier, 

I find my vessel fast. 
44 



XXXII. 

THE MOON. 

The moon has a face like the clock in the hall; 
She shines on thieves on the garden wall, 
On streets and fields and harbour quays, 
And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. 

The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, 
The howling dog by the door of the house, 
The bat that lies in bed at noon, 
All love to be out by the light of the moon. 

But all of the things that belong to the day 
Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; 
And flowers and children close their eyes 
Till up in the morning the sun shall arise. 



45 



THE SWING. 

How do you like to go up in a swing, 

Up in the air so blue? 
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing 

Ever a child can do ! 

Up in the air and over the wall, 

Till I can see so wide, 
Rivers and trees and cattle and all 

Over the countryside — 

Till I look down on the garden green, 
Down on the roof so brown — 

Up in the air I go flying again, 
Up in the air and down ! 



46 



XXXIV. 

TIME TO RISE. 

A BIRDIE with a yellow bill 
Hopped upon the window sill, 
Cocked his shining eye and said: 
"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head! 



47 



XXXV. 

LOOKING-GLASS RIVER. 

Smooth it slides upon its travel, 
Here a wimple, there a gleam — 
O the clean gravel ! 
O the smooth stream! 

Sailing blossoms, silver fishes, 
Paven pools as clear as air — 
How a child wishes 
To live down there! 

We can see our coloured faces 
Floating on the shaken pool 
Down in cool places, 
Dim and very cool; 

Till a wind or water wrinkle. 
Dipping martin, plumping trout, 
48 



LOOKING-GLASS RIVER. 49 

Spreads in a twinkle 
And blots all out. 

See the rings pursue each other; 
All below grows black as night, 
Just as if mother 
Had blown out the light! 

Patience, children, just a minute — 
See the spreading circles die; 
The stream and all in it 
Will clear by-and-by. 



XXXVI. 

FAIRY BREAD. 

Come up here, O dusty feet! 

Here is fairy bread to eat. 
Here in my retiring room, 

Children, you may dine 
On the golden smell of broom 

And the shade of pine; 
And when you have eaten well, 
Fairy stories hear and tell. 



60 



XXXVII. 

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE. 

Faster than fairies, faster than witches, 
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; 
And charging along like troops in a battle, 
All through the meadows the horses and cattle : 
All of the sights of the hill and the plain 
Fly as thick as driving rain; 
And ever again, in the wink of an eye, 
Painted stations whistle by. 

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles. 
All by himself and gathering brambles; 
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; 
And there is the green for stringing the daisies ! 
Here is a cart run away in the road 
Lumping along with man and load; 
And here is a mill and there is a river: 
Each a glimpse and gone for ever! 

51 



XXXVIII. 

WINTER-TIME. 

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, 
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; 
Blinks but an hour or two; and then, 
A blood-red orange, sets again. 

Before the stars have left the skies, 
At morning in the dark I rise; 
And shivering in my nakedness. 
By the cold candle, bathe and dress. 

Close by the jolly fire I sit 
To warm my frozen bones a bit; 
Or, with a reindeer-sled, explore 
The colder countries round the door. 

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap 
Me in my comforter and cap; 
62 



IVINTER-TIME. 53 

The cold wind burns my face, and blows 
Its frosty pepper up my nose. 

Black are my steps on silver sod; 
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; 
And tree and house, and hill and lake, 
Are frosted like a wedding-cake. 



XXXIX. 
THE HAYLOFT. 

Through all the pleasant meadow-side 

The grass grew shoulder-high, 
Till the shining scythes went far and wide 

And cut it down to dry. 

These green and sweetly smelling crops 

They led in waggons home; 
And they piled them here in mountain tops 

For mountaineers to roam. 

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, 
Mount Eagle and Mount High; — 

The mice that in these mountains dwell, 
No happier are than I ! 

O what a joy to clamber there, 

O what a place for play, 
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, 

The happy hills of hay! 
64 



XL. 

FAREWELL TO THE FARM. 

The coach is at the door at last; 
The eager children, mounting fast 
And kissing hands, in chorus sing: 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! • 

To house and garden, field and lawn, 
The meadow-gates we swang upon, 
To pump and stable, tree and swing. 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 

And fare you well for evermore, 
O ladder at the hayloft door, 
O hayloft where the cobwebs cling, 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 

Crack goes the whip, and off we go; 
The trees and houses smaller grow; 
Last, round the woody turn we swing; 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 
55 



XLI. 

NORTH-WEST PASSAGE. 

I. Good Night. 

When the bright lamp is carried in, 
The sunless hours again begin; 
O'er all without, in field and lane,. 
The haunted night returns again. 

Now we behold the embers flee 
About the firelit hearth; and see 
Our faces painted as we pass, 
Like pictures, on the window-glass. 

Must we to bed indeed? Well then. 
Let us arise and go like men, 
And face with an undaiunted tread 
The long black passage up to bed. 

Farewell, O brother, sister, sire! 
O pleasant party round the fire! 
The songs you sing, the tales you tell. 
Till far to-morrow, fare ye well! 
56 



2. Shadow March. 

All round the house is the jet-black night; 

It stares through the window-pane; 
It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, 

And it moves with the moving flame. 

Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum, 
With the breath of the Bogie in my hair; 

And all round the candle the crooked shadows 
come, 
And go marching along up the stair. 

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the 
lamp. 
The shadow of the child that goes to bed — 
All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, 
tramp, 
With the black night overhead. 



67 



3- In Port. 

Last, to the chamber where I lie 
My fearful footsteps patter nigh, 
And come from out the cold and gloom 
Into my warm and cheerful room. 

There, safe arrived, we turn about 
To keep the coming shadows out. 
And close the happy door at last 
On all the perils that we past. 

Then, when mamma goes by to bed. 
She shall come in with tip-toe tread, 
And see me lying warm and fast 
And in the Land of Nod at last. 



58 



THE CHILD ALONE. 



I. 

THE UNSEEN PLAYMATE. 

When children are playing alone on the green, 
In comes the playmate that never was seen. 
When children are happy and lonely and good, 
The Friend of the Children comes out of the 
wood. 

Nobody heard him and nobody saw, 

His is a picture you never could draw. 

But he 's sure to be present, abroad or at 

home, 
When children are happy and playing alone. 

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass. 
He sings when you tinkle the musical glass; 
Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why. 
The Friend of the Children is sure to be by! 
61 



62' THE UNSEEN PLAYMATE. 

He loves to be little, he hates to be big, 
'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig; 
'T is he when you play with your soldiers of tin 
That sides with the Frenchmen and never can 



'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed, 

Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your 
head; 

For wherever they 're lying, in cupboard or 
shelf, 

'Tis he will take care of your playthings him- 
self! 



II. 

MY SHIP AND I. 

O IT 's I that am the captain of a tidy little 
ship, 
Of a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond; 
And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and 

all about; 
But when I 'm a little older, I shall find the 
secret out 
How to send my vessel sailing on beyond. 

For I mean to grow as little as the dolly at 
the helm, 
And the dolly I intend to come alive; 
And with him beside to help me, it 's a-sailing 

I shall go. 
It's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly 
breezes blow 
And the vessel goes a divie-divie-dive. 
63 



64 MY SHIP AND I. 

O it's then you'll see me sailing through the 
rushes and the reeds, 
And you'll hear the water singing at the 
prow ; 
For beside the dolly sailor, I 'm to voyage and 

explore, 
To land upon the island where no dolly was 
before, 
And to fire the penny cannon in the bow. 



III. 

MY KINGDOM. 

Down by a shining water well 
I found a very little dell, 

No higher than my head. 
The heather and the gorse about 
In summer bloom were coming out, 

Some yellow and some red. 

I called the little pool a sea; 
The little hills were big to me; 

For I am very small. 
I made a boat, I made a town, 
I searched the caverns up and down, 

And named them one and all. 

And all about was mine, I said, 
The little sparrows overhead. 
The little minnows too. 
65 



66 MY KINGDOM. 

This was the world and I was king; 
For me the bees came by to sing, 
For me the swallows flew. 

I played there were no deeper seas, 
Nor any wider plains than these, 

Nor other kings than me. 
At last I heard my mother call 
Out from the house at evenfall. 

To call me home to tea. 

And I must rise and leave my dell. 
And leave my dimpled water well, 

And leave my heather blooms. 
Alas! and as my home I neared. 
How very big my nurse appeared. 

How great and cool the rooms! 



IV. 

PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER. 

Summer fading, winter comes — 
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, 
Window robins, winter rooks, 
And the picture story-books. 

• 
Water now is turned to stone 
Nurse and I can walk upon; 
Still we find the flowing brooks 
In the picture story-books. 

All the pretty things put by, 
Wait upon the children's eye, 
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, 
In the picture story-books. 

We may see how all things are 
Seas and cities, near and far, 
67 



68 PICTURE-BOOKS IN IVINTER. 

And the flying fairies' looks, 
In the picture story-books. 

How am I to sing your praise, 
Happy chimney-corner days, 
Sitting safe in nursery nooks, 
Reading picture story-books? 



V. 

MY TREASURES. 

These nuts, that I keep in the back of the 

nest 
Where all my lead soldiers are lying at rest, 
Were gathered in autumn by nursie and me 
In a wood with a well by the side of the sea. 

This whistle we made (and how clearly it 

sounds !) 
By the side of a field at the end of the 

grounds. 
Of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my 

own, 
It was nursie who made it, and nursie alone ! 

The stone, with the white and the yellow and 

grey, 
We discovered I cannot tell how far away; 
69 



70 MY TREASURES. 

And I carried it back although weary and cold, 
For though father denies it, I'm sure it is gold. 

But of all my treasures the last is the king, 
For there 's very few children possess such a 

thing; 
And that is a chisel, both handle and blade. 
Which a man who was really a carpenter made. 



VI. 

BLOCK CITY. 

What are you able to build with your blocks? 
Castles and palaces, temples and docks. 
Rain may keep raining, and others go roam. 
But I can be happy and building at home. 

Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, 
There I'll establish a city for me: 
A kirk and a mill and a palace beside. 
And a harbour as well where my vessels may 
ride. 

Great is the palace with pillar and wall, 
A sort of a tower on the top of it all, 
And steps coming down in an orderly way 
To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. 

This one is sailing and that one is moored: 
Hark to the song of the sailors on board ! 
71 



72 BLOCK CITY, 

And see on the steps of my palace, the kings 
Coming and going with presents and things! 

Now I have done with it, down let it go ! 
All in a moment the town is laid low. 
Block upon block lying scattered and free, 
What is there left of my town by the sea? 

Yet, as I saw it, I see it again. 

The kirk and the palace, the ships and the 

men. 
And as long as I live and where'er I may be, 
I '11 always remember my town by the sea. 



VII. 

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS. 

At evening when the lamp is lit, 
Around the fire my parents sit; 
They sit at home and talk and sing, 
And do not play at anything. 

Now, with my little gun, I crawl 
All in the dark along the wall. 
And follow round the forest track 
Away behind the sofa back. 

There, in the night, where none can spy, 
All in my hunter's camp I lie. 
And play at books that I have read 
Till it is time to go to bed. 

These are the hills, these are the woods. 
These are my starry solitudes; 
73 



THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS.. 

And there the river by whose brink 
The roaring lions come to drink. 

I see the others far away 
As if in firelit camp they lay, 
And I, like to an Indian scout. 
Around their party prowled about. 

So, when my nurse comes in for me, 
Home I return across the sea. 
And go to bed with backward looks 
At my dear land of Story-books. 



VIII. 

ARMIES IN THE FIRE. 

The lamps now glitter down the street; 
Faintly sound the falling feet; 
And the blue even slowly falls 
About the garden trees and walls. 

Now in the falling of the gloom 
The red fire paints the empty room: 
And warmly on the roof it looks, 
And flickers on the backs of books. 

Armies march by tower and spire 
Of cities blazing, in the fire; — 
Till as I gaze with staring eyes, 
The armies fade, the lustre dies. 

Then once again the glow returns; 
Again the phantom city burns; 



76 ARMIES IN THE FIRE. 

And down the red-hot valley, lo! 
The phantom armies marching go! 

Blinking embers, tell me true 
Where are those armies marching to, 
And what the burning city is 
That crumbles in your furnaces! 



IX. 

THE LITTLE LAND. 

When at home alone I sit 
And am very tired of it, 
I have just to shut my eyes 
To go sailing through the skies - 
To go sailing far away 
To the pleasant Land of Play; 
To the fairy land afar 
Where the Little People are; 
Where the clover-tops are trees, 
And the rain-pools are the seas. 
And the leaves like little ships 
Sail about on tiny trips; 
And above the daisy tree 

Through the grasses. 
High o'erhead the Bumble Bee 

Hums and passes. 

In that forest to and fro 
I can wander, I can go; 

77 



78 THE LITTLE LAND. 

See the spider and the fly, 

And the ants go marching by 

Carrying parcels with their feet 

Down the green and grassy street. 

I can in the sorrel sit 

Where the ladybird alit. 

I can climb the jointed grass, 

And on high 
See the greater swallows pass 

In the sky, 
And the round sun rolling by 
Heeding no such things as I. 



Through that forest I can pass 
Till, as in a looking-glass, 
Humming fly and daisy tree 
And my tiny self I see. 
Painted very clear and neat 
On the rain-pool at my feet. 
Should a leaflet come to land, 
Drifting near to where I stand. 
Straight I '11 board that tiny boat 
Round the rain-pool sea to float. 



THE LITTLE LAND. 79 

Little thoughtful creatures sit 
On the grassy coasts of it; 
Little things with lovely eyes 
See me sailing with surprise. 
Some are clad in armour green — 
(These have sure to battle been ! ) — 
Some are pied with ev'ry hue, 
Black and crimson, gold and blue; 
Some have wings and swift are gone; — 
But they all look kindly on. 

When my eyes I once again 
Open, and see all things plain: 
High bare walls, great bare floor; 
Great big knobs on drawer and door; 
Great big people perched on chairs, 
Stitching tucks and mending tears, 
Each a hill that I could climb. 
And talking nonsense all the time — 

O dear me, 

That I could be 
A sailor on the rain-pool sea, 
A climber in the clover tree, 
And just come back, a sleepy-head, 
Late at night to go to bed. 



GARDEN DAYS. 



I. 

NIGHT AND DAY. 

When the golden day is done, 
Through the closing portal, 

Child and garden, flower and sun, 
Vanish all things mortal. 

As the blinding shadows fall 

As the rays diminish, 
Under evening's cloak, they all 

Roll away and vanish. 

Garden darkened, daisy shut, 
Child in bed, they slumber — 

Glow-worm in the highway rut, 
Mice among the lumber. n 

In the darkness houses shine, 
Parents move with candles; 
83 



84 NIGHT AND DAY. 

Till on all, the night divine 
Turns the bedroom handles. 

Till at last the day begins 

In the east a-breaking, 
In the hedges and the whins 

Sleeping birds a-waking. 

In the darkness shapes of things, 
Houses, trees, and hedges. 

Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings 
Beat on window ledges. 

These shall wake the yawning maid; 

She the door shall open — 
Finding dew on garden glade 

And the morning broken. 

There my garden grows again 
Green and rosy painted. 

As at eve behind the pane 
From my eyes it fainted. 

Just as it was shut away. 
Toy-like, in the even, 



NIGHT AND DAY. 85 

Here I see it glow with day 
Under glowing heaven. 

Every path and every plot, 

Every bush of roses, 
Every blue forget-me-not 

Where the dew reposes, 

"Up!" they cry, "the day is come 

On the smiling valleys: 
We have beat the morning drum; 

Playmate, join your allies!" 



II. 

NEST EGGS. 

Birds all the sunny day 

Flutter and quarrel 
Here in the arbour-like 

Tent of the laurel. 

Here in the fork 

The brown nest is seated; 
Four little blue eggs 

The mother keeps heated. 

While we stand watching her, 

Staring like gabies, 
Safe in each egg are the 

Bird's little babies. 

Soon the frail eggs they shall 
Chip, and upspringing 



NEST EGGS. 87 

Make all the April woods 
Merry with singing. 

Younger than we are, 

O children, and frailer, 
Soon in blue air they '11 be, 

Singer and sailor. 

We, so much older. 

Taller and stronger. 
We shall look down on the 

Birdies no longer. 

They shall go flying 

With musical speeches 
High overhead in the 

Tops of the beeches. 

In spite of our wisdom 

And sensible talking. 
We on our feet must go 

Plodding and walking. 



III. 

THE FLOWERS. 

All the names I know from nurse: 
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse, 
Bachelor's buttons. Lady's smock. 
And the Lady Hollyhock. 

Fairy places, fairy things. 

Fairy woods where the wild bee wings, 

Tiny trees for tiny dames — 

These must all be fairy names! 

Tiny woods below whose boughs 
Shady fairies weave a house; 
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme. 
Where the braver fairies climb! 

Fair are grown-up people's trees. 
But the fairest woods are these; 
Where, if I were not so tall, 
I should live for good and all. 
88 



IV. 

SUMMER SUN. 

Great is the sun, and wide he goes 
Through empty heaven without repose; 
And in the blue and glowing days 
More thick than rain he showers his rays. 

Though closer still the blinds we pull 
To keep the shady parlour cool, 
Yet he will find a chink or two 
To slip his golden fingers through. 

The dusty attic, spider-clad, 
He^ through the keyhole, maketh glad; 
And through the broken edge of tiles. 
Into the laddered hayloft smiles. 

Meantime his golden face around 
He bares to all the garden ground, 

89 



90 SUMMER SUN. 

And sheds a warm and glittering look 
Among the ivy's inmost nook. 

Above the hills, along the blue, 
Round the bright air, with footing true, 
To please the child, to paint the rose, 
The gardener of the World, he goes. 



V. 

THE DUMB SOLDIER. 

When the grass was closely mown, 
Walking on the lawn alone, 
In the turf a hole I found 
And hid a soldier underground. 

Spring and daisies came apace; 
Grasses hide my hiding place; 
Grasses run like a green sea 
O'er the lawn up to my knee. 

Under grass alone he lies, 
Looking up with leaden eyes, 
Scarlet coat and pointed gun. 
To the stars and to the sun. 

When the grass is ripe like grain. 
When the scythe is stoned again, 
When the lawn is shaven clear, 
Then my hole shall reappear. 
91 



92 THE DUMB SOLDIER. 

I shall find him, never fear, 
I shall find my grenadier; 
But for all that 's gone and come, 
I shall find my soldier dumb. 

He has lived, a little thing, 
In the grassy woods of spring; 
Done, if he could tell me true, 
Just as I should like to do. 

He has seen the starry hours 
And the springing of the flowers- 
And the fairy things that pass 
In the forests of the grass. 

In the silence he has heard 
Talking bee and ladybird. 
And the butterfly has flown 
O'er him as he lay alone. 

Not a word will he disclose. 
Not a word of all he knows. 
I must lay him on the shelf, 
And make up the tale myself. 



VI. 

AUTUMN FIRES. 

In the other gardens 
And all up the vale, 

From the autumn bonfires 
See the smoke trail ! 

Pleasant summer over 

And all the summer flowers, 
The red fire blazes, 

The grey smoke towers. 

Sing a song of seasons! 

Something bright in all! 
Flowers in the summer, 

Fires in the fall! 



93 



VII. 

THE GARDENER. 

The gardener does not love to talk, 
He makes me keep the gravel walk ; 
And when he puts his tools away, 
He locks the door and takes the key. 

Away behind the currant row 
Where no one else but cook may go, 
Far in the plots, I see him dig 
Old and serious, brown and big. 

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, 
Nor wishes to be spoken to. 
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, 
And never seems to want to play. 

Silly gardener ! summer goes. 
And winter comes with pinching toes, 
94 



THE GARDENER. 95 

When in the garden bare and brown 
You must lay your barrow down. 

Well now, and while the summer stays, 
To profit by these garden days 
O how much wiser you would be 
To play at Indian wars with me ! 



VIII. 

HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS. 

Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground 
That now you smoke your pipe around, 
Has seen immortal actions done 
And valiant battles lost and won. 

Here we had best on tip-toe tread, 
While I for safety march ahead, 
For this is that enchanted ground 
Where all who loiter slumber sound. 

Here is the sea, here is the sand, 
Here is simple Shepherd's Land, 
Here are the fairy hollyhocks. 
And there are Ali Baba's rocks. 

But yonder, see! apart and high, 
Frozen Siberia lies; where I, 
With Robert Bruce and William Tell, 
Was bound by an enchanter's spell. 
S)6 



ENVOYS. 



^\ 



I. 

TO WILLIE AND HENRIETTA. 

If two may read aright 
These rhymes of old delight 
And house and garden play, 
You two, my cousins, and you only, may. 

You in a garden green 
With me were king and queen, 
Were hunter, soldier, tar, 
And all the thousand things that children are. 

Now in the elders' seat 
We rest with quiet feet, 
And from the window-bay 
We watch the children, our successors, play. 

"Time was," the golden head 
Irrevocably said; 
But time, which none can bind, 
While flowing fast away, leaves love behind. 
99 



II. 

TO MY MOTHER. 

You too, my mother, read my rhymes 
For love of unforgotten times. 
And you may chance to hear once more 
The little feet along the floor. 



100 



III. 

TO AUNTIE. 

Chief of our aunts — not only I, 

But all your dozen of nurselings cry — 

What did the other children do? 

And what were childhood, wanting you ? 



101 



IV. 

TO MINNIE. 

The red room with the giant bed 
Where none but elders laid their head 
The little room where you and I 
Did for awhile together lie 
And, simple suitor, I your hand 
In decent marriage did demand; 
The great day nursery, best of all, 
With pictures pasted on the wall 
And leaves upon the blind — 
A pleasant room wherein to wake 
And hear the leafy garden shake 
And rustle in the wind — 
And pleasant there to lie in bed 
And see the pictures overhead — 
The wars about Sebastopol, 
The grinning guns along the wall, 
The daring escalade, 
102 



TO MINNIE. \0[ 

The plunging ships, the bleating sheep, 
The happy children ankle-deep 
And laughing as they wade : 
All these are vanished clean away. 
And the old manse is changed to-day; 
It wears an altered face 
And shields a stranger race. 
The river, on from mill to mill, 
Flows past our childhood's garden still; 
But ah ! we children never more 
Shall watch it from the water-door ! 
Below the yew — it still is there — 
Our phantom voices haunt the air 
As we were still at play, 
And I can hear them call and say: 
''Bow far is it to Babylon?'' 

Ah, far enough, my dear. 

Far, far enough from here — 

Yet you have farther gone ! 

''Can I get there by candlelight?'' 

So goes the old refrain. 

I do not know — perchance you might — 

But only, children, hear it right, 



104 TO MINNIE. 

Ah, never to return again! 
The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, 
Shall break on hill and plain. 
And put all stars and candles out 
Ere we be young again. 

To you in distant India, these 

I send across the seas. 

Nor count it far across. 

For which of us forgets 

The Indian cabinets, 

The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross, 

The pied and painted birds and beans. 

The junks and bangles, beads and screens, 

The gods and sacred bells. 

And the loud-humming, twisted shells! 

The level of the parlour floor 

Was honest, homely, Scottish shore; 

But when we climbed upon a chair. 

Behold the gorgeous East was there! 

Be this a fable; and behold 

Me in the parlour as of old, 

And Minnie just above me set 

In the quaint Indian cabinet! 



TO MINNIE. 105 

Smiling and kind, you grace a shelf 
Too high for me to reach myself. 
Reach down a hand, my dear, and take 
These rhymes for old acquaintance' sake! 



V. 

TO MY NAME-CHILD. 

I. 

Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you 

learn with proper speed, 
Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to 

read. 
Then shall you discover, that your name was 

printed down 
By the English printers, long before, in London 

town. 

In the great and busy city where the East 

and West are met, 
All the little letters did the English printer set; 
While you thought of nothing, and were still 

too young to play, 
Foreign people thought of you in places far 

away. 

106 



TO MY NAME-CHILD. 107 

Ay, and while you slept, a baby, over all the 

English lands 
Other little children took the volume in their 

hands ; 
Other children questioned, in their homes across 

the seas: 
Who was little Louis, won't you tell us, mother, 

please ? 



II. 



Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it 

down and go and play, 
Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of 

Monterey, 
Watching all the mighty whalebones, lying 

buried by the breeze. 
Tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge Pacific seas. 

And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog 

rolls to you. 
Long ere you could read it, how I told you 

what to do; 
And that while you thought of no one, nearly 

half the world away 
Some one thought of Louis on the beach of 

Monterey ! 



108 



VI. 

TO ANY READER. 

As from the house your mother sees 
You playing round the garden trees, 
So you may see, if you will look 
Through the windows of this book, 
Another child, far, far away, 
And in another garden, play. 
But do not think you can at all, 
By knocking on the window, call 
That child to hear you. He intent 
Is all on his play-business bent. 
He does not hear; he will not look, 
Nor yet be lured out of this book. 
For, long ago, the truth to say, 
He has grown up and gone away. 
And it is but a child of air 
That lingers in the garden there. 



109 



THE SONG OF RAHERO. 



TO OKI A OKI. 

Ori, 7ny brother in the island mode, 

In every tongue and meaning much my friend. 

This story of your country and your clan. 

In your loved house, your too much honoured guest, 

I made in English. Take it, being done ; 

And let me sign it ivith the najue you gave. 

Teriitera. 



THE SONG OF RAHERO: A LEGEND 
OF TAHITI. 

I. THE SLAYING OF TAMATEA. 

It fell in the days of old, as the men of 

Taiarapn tell, 
A youth went forth to the fishing, and fortune 

favoured him well. 
Tamatea his name : gullible, simple, and kind, 
Comely of countenance, nimble of body, 

empty of mind, 
His mother ruled him and loved him beyond 

the wont of a wife, 
Serving the lad for eyes and living herself in 

his life. 

Alone from the sea and the fishing came 

Tamatea the fair. 
Urging his boat to the beach, and the mother 

awaited him there, 
115 



116 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

— "Long may you live!" said she. "Your 

fishing has sped to a wish. 
And now let us choose for the king the fairest 

of all your fish. lo 

For fear inhabits the palace and grudging 

grows in the land, 
Marked is the sluggardly foot and marked the 

niggardly hand, 
The hours and the miles are counted, the 

tributes numbered and weighed, 
And woe to him that comes short, and woe to 

him that delayed! " 



So spoke on the beach the mother, and coun- 
selled the wiser thing. 

For Rahero stirred in the country and secretly 
mined the king. 

Nor were the signals wanting of how the 
leaven wrought. 

In the cords of obedience loosed and the 
tributes grudgingly brought. 

And when last to the temple of Oro the boat 
with the victim sped, 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 117 

And the priest uncovered the basket and 
looked on the face of the dead, 20 

Trembling fell upon all at sight of an ominous 
thing, 

For there was the aito ^ dead, and he of the 
house of the king. 



So spake on the beach the mother, matter 

worthy of note. 
And wattled a basket well, and chose a fish 

from the boat; 
And Tamatea the pliable shouldered the basket 

and went. 
And travelled, and sang as he travelled, a lad 

that was well content. 
Still the way of his going was round by the 

roaring coast. 
Where the ring of the reef is broke and the 

trades run riot the most. 
On his left, with smoke as of battle, the bil- 
lows battered the land; 
Unscalable, turreted mountains rose on the 

inner hand. 30 



118 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

And cape, and village, and river, and vale, 
and mountain above. 

Each had a name in the land for men to re- 
member and love; 

And never the name of a place, but lo ! a 
song in its praise : 

Ancient and unforgotten, songs of the earlier 
days, 

That the elders taught to the young, and at 
night, in the full of the moon. 

Garlanded boys and maidens sang together in 
tune. 

Tamatea the placable went with a lingering 
foot; 

He sang as loud as a bird, he whistled hoarse 
as a flute; 

He broiled in the sun, he breathed in the 
grateful shadow of trees. 

In the icy stream of the rivers he waded over 
the knees; 40 

And still in his empty mind crowded, a thou- 
sand-fold. 

The deeds of the strong and the songs of the 
cunning heroes of old. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 119 

And now was he come to a place Taiarapu 

honoured the most, 
Where a silent valley of woods debouched on 

the noisy coast, 
Spewing a level river. There was a haunt of Pai.- 
There, in his potent youth, when his parents 

drove him to die, 
Honoura lived like a beast, lacking the lamp 

and the fire. 
Washed by the rains of the trade and clotting 

his hair in the mire; 
And there, so mighty his hands, he bent the 

tree to his foot — 
So keen the spur of his hunger, he plucked it 

naked of fruit. 50 

There, as she pondered the clouds for the 

shadow of coming ills, 
Ahupu, the woman of song, walked on high 

on the hills. 

Of these was Rahero sprung, a man of a godly 

race; 
And inherited cunning of spirit and beauty of 

body and face. 



120 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

Of yore in his youth, as an aito, Rahero wan- 
dered the land, 

Delighting maids with his tongue, smiting men 
with his hand. 

Famous he was in his youth; but before the 
midst of his life 

Paused, and fashioned a song of farewell to 
glory and strife. 

House of mine {it went), house upon the sea, 
Belov'd of all my fathers, more bclov'd by 

me I 60 

Vale of the strong Honoura, deep ravine of 

Pai, 
Again in your woody summits I hear the 

trade-ivind ery. 

House of mine, in your walls, strong sounds 
the sea. 

Of all sounds on earth, dearest sound to me. 

I have heard the applause of men, I have 
heard it arise and die : 

Sweeter now in my house I hear the trade- 
wind cry. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 121 

These were the words of his singing, other the 

thought of his heart; 
For secret desire of glory vexed him, dwelling 

apart. 
Lazy and crafty he was, and loved to lie in 

the sun. 
And loved the cackle of talk and the true word 

uttered in fun; 70 

Lazy he was, his roof was ragged, his table 

was lean. 
And the fish swam safe in his sea, and he 

gathered the near and the green. 
He sat in his house and laughed, but he 

loathed the king of the land, 
And he uttered the grudging word under the 

covering hand. 
Treason spread from his door; and he looked 

for a day to come, 
A day of the crowding people, a day of the 

summoning drum. 
When the vote should be taken, the king be 

driven forth in disgrace. 
And Rahero, the laughing and lazy, sit and 

rule in his place. 



122 THE SONG OF RAHERO: 

Here Tamatea came, and beheld the house on 

the brook ; 
And Rahero was there by the way and covered 

an oven to cook.^ 80 

Naked he was to the loins, but the tattoo cov- 
ered the lack, 
And the sun and the shadow of palms dappled 

his muscular back. 
Swiftly he lifted his head at the fall of the 

coming feet. 
And the water sprang in his mouth with a 

sudden desire of meat; 
For he marked the basket carried, covered 

from flies and the sun; ^ 
And Rahero buried his fire, but the meat in 

his house was done. 



Forth he stepped; and took, and delayed the 

boy, by the hand; 
And vaunted the joys of meat and the ancient 

ways of the land: 
— "Our sires of old in Taiarapu, they that 

created the race. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 123 

Ate ever with eager hand, nor regarded season 

or place, 90 

Ate in the boat at the oar, on the way afoot; 

and at night 
Arose in the midst of dreams to rummage the 

house for a bite. 
It is good for the youth in his turn to follow 

the way of the sire; 
And behold how fitting the time! for here do 

I cover my fire." 

— "I see the fire for the cooking but never 

the meat to cook," 
Said Tamat^a. — "Tut!" said Rahero. "Here 

in the brook 
And there in the tumbling sea, the fishes are 

thick as flies. 
Hungry like healthy men, and like pigs for 

savour and size : 
Crayfish crowding the river, sea-fish thronging 

the sea." 

— "Well it may be," says the other, "and yet 

be nothing to me. 100 

Fain would I eat, but alas ! I have needful 
matter in hand, 



124 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

Since I carry my tribute of fish to the jealous 
king of the land." 

Now at the word a light sprang in Rah^ro's 

eyes. 
"I will gain me a dinner," thought he, "and 

lend the king a surprise." 
And he took the lad by the arm, as they stood 

by the side of the track, 
And smiled, and rallied, and flattered, and 

pushed him forward and back. 
It was "You that sing like a bird, I never 

have heard you sing," 
And "The lads when I was a lad were none 

so feared of a king. 
And of what account is an hour, when the 

heart is empty of guile? 
But come, and sit in the house and laugh 

with the women awhile; no 

And I will but drop my hook, and behold ! 

the dinner made." 

So Tamat^a the pliable hung up his fish in the 
shade 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 125 

On a tree by the side of the way; and Rah^ro 

carried him in, 
Smiling as smiles the fowler when flutters the 

bird to the gin, 
And chose him a shining hook,^ and viewed it 

with sedulous eye, 
And breathed and burnished it well on the 

brawn of his naked thigh. 
And set a mat for the gull, and bade him be 

merry and bide. 
Like a man concerned for his guest, and the 

fishing, and nothing beside. 



Now when Rah^ro was forth, he paused and 

hearkened, and heard 
The gull jest in the house and the women 

laugh at his word; 120 

And stealthily crossed to the side of the way 

to the shady place 
Where the basket hung on a mango; and craft 

transfigured his face. 
Deftly he opened the basket, and took of the 

fat of the fish, 



126 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

The cut of kings and chieftains, enough for a 
goodly dish. 

This he wrapped in a leaf, set on the fire to 
cook 

And buried; and next the marred remains of 
the tribute he took. 

And doubled and packed them well, and cov- 
ered the basket close 

— "There is a buffet, my king," quoth he, 

"and a nauseous dose!" — 
And hung the basket again in the shade, in a 
cloud of flies 

— "And there is a sauce to your dinner, king 

of the crafty eyes ! " 130 



Soon as the oven was open, the fish smelt ex- 
cellent good. 

In the shade, by the house of Rah^ro, down 
they sat to their food. 

And cleared the leaves^ in silence, or uttered 
a jest and laughed. 

And raising the cocoanut bowls, buried their 
faces and quaffed. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 127 

But chiefly in silence they ate; and soon as 

the meal was done, 
Rahero feigned to remember and measured the 

hour by the sun, 
And "Tamatea," quoth he, "it is time to be 

jogging, my lad." 



So Tamatea arose, doing ever the thing he 

was bade, 
And carelessly shouldered the basket, and 

kindly saluted his host; 
And again the way of his going was round by 

the roaring coast. 140 

Long he went; and at length was aware of a 

pleasant green. 
And the stems and shadows of palms, and 

roofs of lodges between. 
There sate, in the door of his palace, the king 

on a kingly seat, 
And aitos stood armed around, and the yot- 

towas " sat at his feet. 
But fear was a worm in his heart: fear darted 

his eyes; 



128 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

And he probed men's faces for treasons and 

pondered their speech for lies. 
To him came Tamatea, the basket slung in his 

hand, 
And paid him the due obeisance standing as 

vassals stand. 
In silence hearkened the king, and closed the 

eyes in his face, 
Harbouring odious thoughts and the baseless 

fears of the base; 150 

In silence accepted the gift and sent the giver 

away. 
So Tamatea departed, turning his back on the 

day. 



And lo ! as the king sat brooding, a rumour 
rose in the crowd; 

The yottowas nudged and whispered, the com- 
mons murmured aloud; 

Tittering fell upon all at sight of the impudent 
thing. 

At the sight of a gift unroyal flung in the face 
of a king. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 129 

And the face of the king turned white and rtd 
with anger and shame 

In their midst; and the heart in his body was 
water and then was flame; 

Till of a sudden, turning, he gripped an aito 
hard, 

A youth that stood with his 6mare,^ one of the 
daily guard, i6o 

And spat in his ear a command, and pointed 
and uttered a name, 

And hid in the shade of the house his impo- 
tent anger and shame. 



Now Tamatea the fool was far on the home- 
ward way, 

The rising night in his face, behind him the 
dying day. 

Rah^ro saw him go by, and the heart of 
Rah^ro was glad. 

Devising shame to the king and nowise harm 
to the lad; 

And all that dwelt by the way saw and saluted 
him well, 



130 THE SONG OF R^HERO: 

For he had the face of a friend and the news 

of the town to tell; 
And pleased with the notice of folk, and 

pleased that his journey was done, 
Tamatea drew homeward, turning his back to 

the sun. 170 

And now was the hour of the bath in Tai- 
arapu : far and near 

The lovely laughter of bathers rose and de- 
lighted his ear. 

Night massed in the valleys; the sun on the 
mountain coast 

Struck, end-long; and above the clouds em- 
battled their host. 

And glowed and gloomed on the heights; and 
the heads of the palms were gems, 

And far to the rising eVe extended the shade 
of their stems; 

And the shadow of Tamatea hovered already 
at home. 

And sudden the sound of one coming and 
running light as the foam 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 131 

Struck on his ear; and he turned, and lo! a 

man on his track, 
Girded and armed with an 6mare, following 

hard at his back. i8o 

At a bound the man was upon him ; — and, or 

ever a word was said. 
The loaded end of the omare fell and laid him 

dead. 

II. THE VENGING OF TAMATEA. 

Thus was Rahero's treason; thus and no further 

it sped. 
The king sat safe in his place and a kindly 

fool was dead. 

But the mother of Tamatea arose with death 

in her eyes. 
All night long, and the next, Taiarapu rang 

with her cries. 
As when a babe in the wood turns with a chill 

of doubt 
And perceives nor 'home, nor friends, for the 

trees have closed her about, 



132 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

The mountain rings and her breast is torn with 

the voice of despair: 
So the lion-like woman idly wearied the air 
For awhile, and pierced men's hearing in vain, 

and wounded their hearts. 191 

But as when the weather changes at sea, in 

dangerous parts. 
And sudden the hurricane wrack unrolls up the 

front of the sky. 
At once the ship lies idle, the sails hang silent 

on high, 
The breath of the wind that blew is blown out 

like the flame of a lamp, 
And the silent armies of death draw near with 

inaudible tramp : 
So sudden, the voice of her weeping ceased; 

in silence she rose 
And passed from the house of her sorrow, a 

woman clothed with repose, 
Carrying death in her breast and sharpening 

death with her hand. 

Hither she went and thither in all the coasts 
of the land. 200 



.4 LEGEND OF TAHITI. 133 

They tell that she feared not to slumber alone, 

in the dead of night, 
In accursed places; beheld, unblenched, the 

ribbon of light'-* 
Spin from temple to temple; guided the peril- 
ous skiff, 
Abhorred not the paths of the mountain and 

trod the verge of the cliff; 
From end to end of the island, thought not 

the distance long, 
But forth from king to king carried the tale 

of her wrong. 
To king after king, as they sat in the palace 

door, she came. 
Claiming kinship, declaiming verses, naming 

her name 
And the names of all of her fathers; and still, 

with a heart on the rack. 
Jested to capture a hearing and laughed when 

they jested back: 210 

So would deceive them awhile, and change and 

return in a breath. 
And on all the men of Vaiau imprecate instant 

death; 



134 THE SONG OF RAHERO: 

And tempt her kings — for Vaiau was a rich 

and prosperous land, 
And flatter — for who would attempt it but 

warriors mighty of hand? 
And change in a breath again and rise in a 

strain of song, 
Invoking the beaten drums, beholding the fall 

of the strong. 
Calling the fowls of the air to come and feast 

on the dead. 
And they held the chin in silence, and heard 

her, and shook the head; 
For they knew the men of Taiarapu famous in 

battle and feast, 
Marvellous eaters and smiters: the men of 

Vaiau not least. 220 



To the land of the Namunu-ura,^^ to Paea, at 

length she came, 
To men who were foes to the Tevas and hated 

their race and name. 
There was she well received, and spoke with 

Hiopa the king.^^ 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 135 

And Hiopa listened, and weighed, and wisely 

considered the thing. 
"Here in the back of the isle we dwell in a 

sheltered place," 
Quoth he to the woman, " in quiet, a weak 

and peaceable race. 
But far in the teeth of the wind lofty Taiarapu 

lies; 
Strong blows the wind of the trade on its sea- 
ward face, and cries 
Aloud in the top of arduous mountains, and 

utters its song 
In green continuous forests. Strong is the 

wind, and strong 230 

And fruitful and hardy the race, famous in 

battle and feast. 
Marvellous eaters and smiters: the men of 

Vaiau not least. 
Now hearken to me, my daughter, and hear a 

word of the wise : 
How a strength goes linked with a weakness, 

two by two, like the eyes. 
They can wield the 6mare well and cast the 

javelin far; 



136 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

Yet are the}^ greedy and weak as the swine and 
the children are. 



Plant we, then, here at Paea, a garden of ex- 
cellent fruits; 

Plant we bananas and kava, and taro, the king 
of roots; 

Let the pigs in Paea be tapu ^- and no man 
fish for a year; 

And of all the meat in Tahiti gather we three- 
fold here. 240 

So shall the fame of our plenty fill the island, 
and so, 

At last, on the tongue of rumour, go where 
we wish it to go. 

Then shall the pigs of Taiarapu raise their 
snouts in the air; 

But we sit quiet and wait, as the fowler sits 
by the snare. 

And tranquilly fold our hands, till the pigs 
come nosing the food: 

But meanwhile build us a house of Trot^a, the 
stubborn wood. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 137 

Bind it with incombustible thongs, set a roof 

to the room, 
Too strong for the hands of a man to dissever 

or fire to consume; 
And there, when the pigs come trotting, there 

shall the feast be spread. 
There shall the eye of the morn enlighten the 

feasters dead. 250 

So be it done; for I have a heart that pities 

your state. 
And Nateva and Namunu-iira are fire and water 

for hate." 



All was done as he said, and the gardens 

prospered; and now 
The fame of their plenty went out, and word 

of it came to Vaiau. 
For the men of Namunu-iira sailed, to the 

windward far. 
Lay in the offing by south where the towns of 

the Tevas are, 
And cast overboard of their plenty; and lo ! at 

the Tevas' feet 



138 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

The surf on all of the beaches tumbled treas- 
ures of meat. 

In the salt of the sea, a harvest tossed with 
the refluent foam; 

And the children gleaned it in playing, and 
ate and carried it home; 260 

And the elders stared and debated, and won- 
dered and passed the jest, 

But whenever a guest came by eagerly ques- 
tioned the guest; 

And little by little, from one to another, the 
word went round : 

"In all the borders of Paea the victual rots 
on the ground, 

And swine are plenty as rats. And now, when 
they fare to the sea. 

The men of the Namunu-ura glean from under 
the tree 

And load the canoe to the gunwale with all 
that is toothsome to eat; 

And all day long on the sea the jaws are crush- 
ing the meat, 

The steersman eats at the helm, the rowers 
munch at the oar, 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 139 

And at length, when their bellies are full, 

overboard with the store ! " 270 

Now was the word made true, and soon as the 

bait was bare, 
All the pigs of Taiarapu raised their snouts in 

the air. 
Songs were recited, and kinship was counted, 

and tales were told 
How war had severed of late but peace had 

cemented of old 
The clans of the island. "To war," said they, 

"now set we an end. 
And hie to the Namunu-ura even as a friend 

to a friend." 



So judged, and a day was named; and soon 

as the morning broke, 
Canoes were thrust in the sea and the houses 

emptied of folk. 
Strong blew the wind of the south, the wind 

that gathers the clan; 
Along all the line of the reef the clamorous 

surges ran; , 2S0 



140 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

And the clouds were piled on the top of the 

island mountain-high, 
A mountain throned on a mountain. The fleet 

of canoes swept by 
In the midst, on the green lagoon, with a 

crew released from care, 
Sailing an even water, breathing a summer 

air. 
Cheered by a cloudless sun; and ever to left 

and right, 
Bursting surge on the reef, drenching storms 

on the height. 
So the folk of Vaiau sailed and were glad all 

day, 
Coasting the palm-tree cape and crossing the 

populous bay 
By all the towns of the Tevas; and still as 

they bowled along. 
Boat would answer to boat with jest and 

laughter and song, 290 

And the people of all the towns trooped to 

the sides of the sea 
And gazed from under the hand or sprang aloft 

on. the tree, 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 141 

Hailing and cheering. Time failed them for 

more to do; 
The holiday village careened to the wind, and 

was gone from view 
Swift as a passing bird; and ever as onward it 

bore, 
Like the cry of the passing bird, bequeathed 

its song to the shore — 
Desirable laughter of maids and the cry of 

delight of the child. 
And the gazer, left behind, stared at the wake 

and smiled. 



By all the towns of the Tevas they went, and 

Papara last. 
The home of the chief, the place of muster in 

war; and passed 300 

The march of the lands of the clan, to the 

lands of an alien folk. 
And there, from the dusk of the shoreside 

palms, a column of smoke 
Mounted and wavered and died in the gold of 

the setting sun, 



142 THE SONG OF ROMERO: 

"Paea!" they cried. "It is Paea." And so 
was the voyage done. 



In the early fall of the night, Hiopa came to 

the shore, 
And beheld and counted the comers, and lo, 

they were forty score : 
The pelting feet of the babes that ran already 

and played, 
The clean-lipped smile of the boy, the slender 

breasts of the maid. 
And mighty limbs of women, stalwart mothers 

of men. 
The sires stood forth unabashed; but a little 

back from his ken 310 

Clustered the scarcely nubile, the lads and 

maids, in a ring, 
Fain of each other, afraid of themselves, aware 

of the king 
And aping behaviour, but clinging together 

with hands and eyes, 
With looks that were kind like kisses, and 

laughter tender as sighs. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 143 

There, too, the grandsire stood, raising his 

silver crest. 
And the impotent hands of a suckling groped 

in his barren breast. 
The childhood of love, the pair well married, 

the innocent brood. 
The tale of the generations repeated and ever 

renewed — 
Hiopa beheld them together, all the ages of 

man, 319 

And a moment shook in his purpose. 



But these were the foes of his clan. 
And he trod upon pity, and came, and civilly 

greeted the king, 
And gravely entreated Rahero; and for all that 

could fight or sing. 
And claimed a name in the land, had fitting 

phrases of praise; 
But with all who were well-descended he spoke 

of the ancient days. 
And "'Tis true," said he, "that in Paea the 

victual rots on the ground; 



144 THE SONG OF R/IHERO : 

But, friends, your number is many; and pigs 

must be hunted and found, 
And the lads troop to the mountains to bring 

the feis down. 
And around the bowls of the kava cluster the 

maids of the town. 
So, for to-night, sleep here; but king, common, 

and priest 330 

To-morrow, in order due, shall sit with me in 

the feast." 
Sleepless the live-long night, Hiopa's followers , 

toiled. 
The pigs screamed and were slaughtered; the 

spars of the guest-house oiled. 
The leaves spread on the floor. In many a 

mountain glen 
The moon drew shadows of trees on the naked 

bodies of men 
Plucking and bearing fruits; and in all the 

bounds of the town 
Red glowed the cocoanut fires, and were buried 

and trodden down. 
Thus did seven of the yottovvas toil with their 

tale of the clan, 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 145 

But the eighth wrought with his lads, hid from 

the sight of man. 
In the deeps of the woods they laboured, piling 

the fuel high 340 

In faggots, the load of a man, fuel seasoned and 

dry. 
Thirsty to seize upon fire and apt to blurt into 

flame. 



And now was the day of the feast. The for- 
ests, as morning came. 
Tossed in the wind, and the peaks quaked in 

the blaze of the day 
And the cocoanuts showered on the ground, 

rebounding and rolling away : 
A glorious morn for a feast, a famous wind for 

a fire. 
To the hall of feasting Hiopa led them, 

mother and sire 
And maid and babe in a tale, the whole of 

the holiday throng. 
Smiling they came, garlanded green, not 

dreaming of wrong; 



146 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

And for every three, a pig, tenderly cooked in 

the ground, 350 

Waited; and fei, the staff of life, heaped in 

a mound 
For each where he sat; — for each, bananas 

roasted and raw 
Piled with a bountiful hand, as for horses hay 

and straw 
Are stacked in a stable; and fish, the food of 

desire, ^^ 
And plentiful vessels of sauce, and breadfruit 

gilt in the fire; — 
And kava was common as water. Feasts have 

there been ere now. 
And many, but never a feast like that of the 

folk of Vaiau. 



All day long they ate with the resolute greed 

of brutes. 
And turned from the pigs to the fish, and 

again from the fish to the fruits. 
And emptied the vessels of sauce, and drank' 

of the kava deep; 360 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 147 

Till the young lay stui)id as stones, and the 

strongest nodded to sleep. 
Sleep that was mighty as death and blind as a 

moonless night 
Tethered them hand and foot; and their souls 

were drowned, and the light 
Was cloaked from their eyes. Senseless to- 
gether, the old and the young, 
The fighter deadly to smite and the prater 

cunning of tongue, 
The woman wedded and fruitful, inured to the 

pangs of birth, 
And the maid that knew not of kisses, blindly 

sprawled on the earth. 



From the hall Hiopa the king and his chiefs 

came stealthily forth. 
Already the sun hung low and enlightened the 

peaks of the north; 
But the wind was stubborn to die and blew as 

it blows at morn, 370 

Showering the nuts in the dusk, and e'en as a 

banner is torn, 



148 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

High on the peaks of the island, shattered the 

mountain cloud. 
And now at once, at a signal, a silent, emu- 
lous crowd 
Set hands to the work of death, hurrying to 

and fro. 
Like ants, to furnish the faggots, building them 

broad and low, 
And piling them high and higher around the 

walls of the hall. 
Silence persisted within, for sleep lay heavy on 

all. 
But the mother of Tamatea stood at Hiopa's 

side. 
And shook for terror and joy like a girl that 

is a bride. 
Night fell on the toilers, and first Hiopa the 

wise 3S0 

Made the round of the house, visiting all with 

his eyes; 
And all was piled to the eaves, and fuel 

blockaded the door; 
And within, in the house beleaguered, slumbered 

the forty score. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 149 

Then was an aito despatched and came with 

fire in his hand, 
And Hiopa took it. — "Within," said he, "is 

the life of a hind; 
And behold ! I breathe on the coal, I breathe 

on the dales of the east, 
And silence falls on forest and shore; the voice 

of the feast 
Is quenched, and the smoke of cooking; the 

rooftree decays and falls 
On the empty lodge, and the winds subvert 

deserted walls." 



Therewithal, to the fuel, he laid the glowing 

coal; 390 

And the redness ran in the mass and burrowed 

within like a mole, 
And copious smoke was conceived. But, as 

when a dam is to burst. 
The water lips it and crosses in silver trickles 

at first, 
And then, of a sudden, whelms and bears it 

away forthright: 



150 THE SONQ OF ROMERO: 

So now, in a moment, the flame sprang and 

towered in the night, 
And wrestled and roared in the wind, and high 

over house and tree. 
Stood, like a streaming torch, enlightening land 

and sea. 



But the mother of Tamatea threw her arms 

abroad, 
"Pyre of my son," she shouted, "debited ven- 
geance of God, 
Late, late, I behold you, yet I behold you at 

last, 400 

And glory, beholding! For now are the days 

of my agony past. 
The lust that famished my soul now eats and 

drinks its desire. 
And they that encompassed my son shrivel 

alive in the fire. 
Tenfold precious the vengeance that comes 

after lingering years ! 
Ye quenched the voice of my singer? — hark, 

in your dying ears. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 151 

The song of the conflagration! Ye left me a 

widow alone? 
— Behold, the whole of your race consumes, 

sinew and bone 
And torturing flesh together: man, mother, and 

maid 
Heaped in a common shambles; and already, 

borne by the trade. 
The smoke of your dissolution darkens the stars 

of night." 410 

Thus she spoke, and her stature grew in the 
people's sight. 

III. RAHERO. 

Rahero was there in the hall asleep: beside 

him his wife. 
Comely, a mirthful woman, one that delighted 

in life; 
And a girl that was ripe for marriage, shy and 

sly as a mouse; 
And a boy, a climber of trees: all the hopes 

of his house. 



152 THE SONG OF RAHEKO : 

Unwary, with open hands, he slept in the 
midst of his folk. 

And dreamed that he heard a voice crying 
without, and awoke, 

Leaping blindly afoot like one from a dream 
that he fears. 

A hellish glow and clouds were about him; — 
it roared in his ears 

Like the sound of the cataract fall that plunges 
sudden and steep; 420 

And Rahero swayed as he stood, and his reason 
was still asleep. 

Now the flame struck hard on the house, wind- 
wielded, a fracturing blow. 

And the end of the roof was burst and fell on 
the sleepers below; 

And the lofty hall, and the feast, and the pros- 
trate bodies of folk, 

Shone red in his eyes a moment, and then 
were swallowed of smoke. 

In the mind of Rahero clearness came; and he 
opened his throat; 

And as when a squall comes sudden, the strain- 
ing sail of a boat 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 15o 

Thunders aloud and bursts, so thundered the 

voice of the man. 
— "The wind and the rain!" he shouted, the 

mustering word of the clan,^'* 
And "Up!" and "To arms, men of Vaiau!" 

But silence replied, 430 

Or only the voice of the gusts of the fire, and 

nothing beside. 



Rahero stooped and groped. He handled his 

womankind, 
But the fumes of the fire and the kava had 

quenched the life of their mind, 
And they lay like pillars prone; and his hand 

encountered the boy, 
And there sprang in the gloom of his soul a 

sudden lightning of joy. 
"Him can I save!" he thought, "if I were 

speedy enough.'' 
And he loosened the cloth from his loins, and 

swaddled the child in the stuff; 
And about the strength of his neck he knotted 

the burden well. 



154 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

There where the roof had fallen, it roared like 

the mouth of hell. 
Thither Rahero went, stumbling on senseless 

folk, 440 

And grappled a post of the house, and began 

to climb in the smoke : 
The last alive of Vaiau : and the son borne by 

the sire. 
The post glowed in the grain with ulcers of 

eating fire, 
And the fire bit to the blood and mangled his 

hands and thighs; 
And the fumes sang in his head like wine and 

stung in his eyes; 
And still he climbed, and came to the top, 

the place of proof, 
And thrust a hand through the flame, and 

clambered alive on the roof. 
But even as he did so, the wind, in a garment 

of flames and pain. 
Wrapped him from head to heel; and the waist- 
cloth parted in twain; 
And the living fruit of his loins dropped in 

the fire below. 450 



A LEGEND OF T AH 111. 155 

About the blazing feast-house clustered the 

eyes of the foe, 
Watching, hand upon weapon, lest ever a soul 

should flee. 
Shading the brow from the glare, straining the 

neck to see. 
Only, to leeward, the flames in the wind swept 

far and wide, 
And the forest sputtered on fire: and there 

might no man abide. 
Thither Rahero crept, and dropped from the 

burning eaves. 
And crouching low to the ground, in a treble 

covert of leaves 
And fire and volleying smoke, ran for the life 

of his soul 
Unseen; and behind him, under a furnace of 

ardent coal, 
Cairned with a wonder of flame, and blotting 

the night with smoke, 460 

Blazed and were smelted together the bones of 

all his folk. 



156 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

He fled unguided at first; but hearing the 

breakers roar, 
Thitherward shaped his way, and came at length 

to the shore. 
Sound-limbed he was: dry-eyed; but smarted 

in every part; 
And the mighty cage of his ribs heaved on 

his straining heart 
With sorrow and rage.. And "Fools!" he 

cried, "fools of Vaiau, 
Heads of swine — gluttons — Alas! and where 

are they now? 
Those that I played with, those that nursed 

me, those that I nursed? 
God, and I outliving them! I, the least and 

the worst — 
I, that thought myself crafty, snared by this 

herd of swine, 470 

In the tortures of hell and desolate, stripped 

of all that was mine: 
All! — my friends and my fathers — the silver 

heads of yore 
That trooped to the council, the children that 

ran to the open door 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 157 

Crying with innocent voices and clasping a 

father's knees! 
And mine, my wife — my daughter — my sturdy 

climber of trees, • 

Ah, never to climb again ! " 

Thus in the dusk of the night, 
(For clouds rolled in the sky and the moon 

was swallowed from sight,) 
Pacing and gnawing his fists, Rahero raged by 

the shore. 
Vengeance: that must be his. But much was 

to do before; 4S0 

And first a single life to be snatched from a 

deadly place, 
A life, the root of revenge, surviving plant of 

the race : 
And next the race to be raised anew, and the 

lands of the clan 
Repeopled. So Rahero designed, a prudent man 
Even in wrath, and turned for the means of 

revenge and escape : 
A boat to be seized by stealth, a wife to be 

taken by rape. 



158 THE SONG OF RAHEKO : 

Still was the dark lagoon; beyond on the coral 

wall, 
He saw the breakers shine, he heard them 

bellow and .fall. 
Alone, on the top of the reef, a man with a 

flaming brand 
Walked, gazing and pausing, a fish-spear 

poised in his hand. 490 

The foam boiled to his calf when the mightier 

breakers came. 
And the torch shed in the wind scattering tufts 

of flame. 
Afar on the dark lagoon a canoe lay idly at 

wait : 
A figure dimly guiding it: surely the fisher- 
man's mate. 
Rahero saw and he smiled. He straightened 

his mighty thews: 
Naked, with never a weapon, and covered 

with scorch and bruise. 
He straightened his arms, he filled the void of 

his body with breath, 
And, strong as the wind in his manhood, 

doomed the fisher to death. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 159 

Silent he entered the water, and silently swam, 

and came 
There where the fisher walked, holding on high 

the flame. 500 

Loud on the pier of the reef volleyed the 

breach of the sea; 
And hard at the back of the man, Rahero 

crept to his knee 
On the coral, and suddenly sprang and seized 

him, the elder hand 
Clutching the joint of his throat, the other 

snatching the brand 
Ere it had time to fall, and holding it steady 

and high. 
Strong was the fisher, brave, and swift of mind 

and of eye — 
Strongly he threw in the clutch; but Rahero 

resisted the strain. 
And jerked, and the spine of life snapped 

with a crack in twain. 
And the man came slack in his hands and 

tumbled a lump at his feet. 



160 ■ THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

One moment: and there, on the reef, where 

the breakers whitened and beat, 510 

Rahero was standing alone, glowing and 

scorched and bare, 
A victor unknown of any, raising the torch in 

the air. 
But once he drank of his breath, and instantly 

set him to fish 
Like a man intent upon supper at home and 

a savoury dish. 
For what should the woman have seen? A 

man with a torch — and then 
A moment's blur of the eyes — and a man with 

a torch again. 
And the torch had scarcely been shaken. "Ah, 

surely," Rahero said, 
"She will deem it a trick of the eyes, a fancy 

born in the head; 
But time must be given the fool to nourish a 

fool's belief." 
So for a while, a sedulous fisher, he walked the 

reef, 520 

Pausing at times and gazing, striking at times 

with the spear: 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 161 

— I>astly, uttered the call; and even as the 

boat drew near, 
Like a man that was done with its use, tossed 
the torch in the sea. 

Lightly he leaped on the boat beside the 

woman; and she 
Lightly addressed him, and yielded the paddle 

and place to sit; 
For now the torch was extinguished the night 

was black as the pit. 
Rahero set him to row, never a word he spoke, 
And the boat sang in the water urged by his 

vigorous stroke. 

— "What ails you?" the woman asked, "and 

why did you drop the brand? 
We have only to kindle another as soon as we 

come to land." 530 

Never a word Rahero replied, but urged the 

canoe. 
And a chill fell on the woman. — " Atta ! speak ! 

is it you? 
Speak! AVhy are you silent? Why do you 

bend aside? 



162 THE SONG OF ROMERO: 

Wherefore steer to the seaward?" thus she 

panted and cried. 
Never a word from the oarsman, toiling there 

in the dark; 
But right for a gate of the reef he silently 

headed the bark, 
And wielding the single paddle with passionate 

sweep on sweep, 
Drove her, the little fitted, forth on the open 

deep. 



And fear, there where she sat, froze the woman 

to stone : 
Not fear of the crazy boat and the weltering 

deep alone; 540 

But a keener fear of the night, the dark, and 

the ghostly hour, 
And the thing that drove the canoe with more 

than a mortal's power 
And more than a mortal's boldness. For much 

she knew of the dead 
That haunt and fish upon reefs, toiling, like 

men, for bread, 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI, 163 

And traffic with human fishes, or slay them and 

take their ware, 
Till the hour when the star of the dead ^^ goes 

down, and the morning air 
Blows, and the cocks are singing on shore. 

And surely she knew 
The speechless thing at her side belonged to 

the grave. ^^ 

It blew 
All night from the south; all night, Rahero 

contended and kept 
The prow to the cresting sea; and, silent as 

though she slept, 550 

The woman huddled and quaked. And now 

was the peep of day. 
High and long on their left the mountainous 

island lay; 
And over the peaks of Taiarapu arrows of sun- 
light struck. 
On shore the birds were beginning to sing: 

the ghostly ruck 
Of the buried had long ago returned to the 

covered grave; 



164 THE SONG OF RAHERO : 

And here on the sea, the woman, waxing sud- 
denly brave. 

Turned her swiftly about and looked in the 
face of the man. 

And sure he was none that she knew, none of 
her country or clan : 

A stranger, mother-naked, and marred with 
the marks of fire. 

But comely and great of stature, a man to 
obey and admire. 560 

And Rahero regarded her also, fixed, with a 
frowning face, 

Judging the woman's fitness to mother a war- 
like race. 

Broad of shoulder, ample of girdle, long in 
the thigh. 

Deep of bosom she was, and bravely supported 
his eye. 

"Woman," said he, "last night the men of 

your folk — 
Man, woman, and maid, smothered my race 

in smoke. 



A LEGEND OF TAHITI. 165 

It was done like cowards; and I, a mighty man 
of my hands, 

Escaped, a single life; and now to the empty 
lands 

And smokeless hearths of my people, sail, with 
yourself, alone. 

Before your mother was born, the die of to- 
day was thrown 570 

And you selected : — your husband, vainly 
striving, to fall 

Broken between these hands : — yourself to be 
severed from all. 

The places, the people, you love — home, kin- 
dred, and clan — 

And to dwell in a desert and bear the babes 
of a kinless man." 



NOTES TO THE SONG OF RAHERO. 

Introduction. — This tale, of which I have not con- 
sciously changed a single feature, I received from tradition. 
It is highly popular through all the country of the eight 
Tevas, the clan to which Rahero belonged; and particu- 
larly in Taiarapu, the windward peninsula of Tahiti, where 
he lived. I have heard from end to end two versions; 
and as many as five different persons have helped me with 
details. There seems no reason why the tale should not 
be true. 

Note I, verse 22. " The aifo" quasi champion, or 
brave. One skilled in the use of some weapon, who wan- 
dered the country challenging distinguished rivals and 
taking part in local quarrels. It was in the natural course 
of his advancement to be at last, employed by a chief, or 
king; and it would then be a part of his duties to purvey 
the victim for sacrifice. One of the doomed famiUes was 
indicated; the aito took his weapon and went forth alone; 
a little behind him bearers followed with the sacrificial 
basket. Sometimes the victim showed fight, sometimes 
prevailed; more often, without doubt, he fell. But what- 
ever body was found, the bearers indifferently took up. 

Note 2, verses 45 ef. seq. ^'- Pai^'' '■^ Honour a, ^'' and 
^^ AJuipuP Legendary persons of Tahiti, all natives of 
Taiarapu. Of the two first, I have collected singular 
although imperfect legends, which I hope soon to lay 
before the public in another place. Of Ahupu, except in 
166 



NOTES TO THE SONG OF RAHERO. 167 

snatches of song, little memory appears to linger. She 
dwelt at least about Tepari, — " the sea-clififs," — the east- 
ern fastness of the isle; walked by paths known only to 
herself upon the mountains; was courted by dangerous 
suitors who came swimming from adjacent islands, and 
defended and rescued (as I gather) by the loyalty of 
native fish. My anxiety to learn more of " Ahupu Vehine " 
became (during my stay in Taiarapu) a cause of some 
diversion to that mirthful people, the inhabitants. 

Note 3, verse 80. " Covered an oven.'''' The cooking 
fire is made in a hole in the ground, and is then buried. 

Note 4, verse 85. ^^ Flies^ This is perhaps an an- 
achronism. Even speaking of to-day in Tahiti, the phrase 
would have to be understood as referring mainly to mos- 
quitoes, and these only in watered valleys with close woods, 
such as I suppose to form the surroundings of Rahero's 
homestead. Quarter of a mile away, where the air moves 
freely, you shall look in vain for one. 

Note 5, verse 115. " /^oi " of mother-of-pearl. Eright- 
hook fishing, and that with the spear, appear to be the 
favourite native methods. 

Note 6, verse 133. "■Leaves,'''' the plates of Tahiti. 

Note 7, verse 144. " Yotlozuas,''^ so spelt for convenience 
of pronunciation, qtiasi Tacksmen in the Scottish High- 
lands. The organization of eight sub-districts and eight 
yottowas to a division, which was in use (until yesterday) 
among the Tevas, I have attributed without authority to 
the next clan : see verses 341-2. 

Note 8, verse 160. ^^Omare,''^ pronounce as a dactyl. 
A loaded quarter-staff, one of the two favourite weapcms 



168 NOTES TO THE SONG OF RAHERO, 

of the Tahitian brave; the javelin, or casting spear, was 
the other. 

Note 9, verse 202. " The ribbon of lights Still to be 
seen (and heard) spinning from one marae to another on 
Tahiti; or so I have it upon evidence that would rejoice 
the Psychical Society. 

Note 10, verse 221. '■'■ Ndiminu-uraP The complete 
name is Namunu-ura te aropa. Why it should be pro- 
nounced Namunu, dactylHcally, I cannot see, but so I 
have always heard it. This was the clan immediately be- 
yond the Tevas on the south coast of the island. At the 
date of the tale the clan organization must have been 
very weak. There is no particular mention of Tamatea's 
mother going to Papara, to the head chief of her own clan, 
which would appear her natural recourse. On the other 
hand, she seems to have visited various lesser chiefs among 
the Tevas, and these to have excused themselves solely on 
the danger of the enterprise. The broad distinction here 
drawn between Nateva and Namunu-ura is therefore not 
impossibly anachronistic. 

Note II, verse 223. '■^ Hiopa the king^ Hiopa was 
really the name of the king (chief) of Vaiau; but I could 
never learn that of the king of Paea — pronounce to rhyme 
with the Indian ayah — and I gave the name where it was 
most needed. This note must appear otiose indeed to 
readers who have never heard of either of these two 
gentlemen; and perhaps there is only one person in the 
world capable at once of reading my verses and spying 
the inaccuracy. For him, for Mr. Tati Salmon, hereditary 
high chief of the Tevas, the note is solely written : a small 
attention from a clansman to his chief. 



NOTES TO THE SONG OF RAHERO. 1G9 

Note 12, verse 239. " Zf/ t/ie pigs be tapu.^'' It is 
impossible to explain tapii in a note; we have it as an 
English word, taboo. Suffice it, that a thing which was 
tapu must not be touched, nor a place that was tapu 
visited. 

Note 13, verse 354. " Fis/i, the food of desire.'''' There 
is a special word in the Tahitian language to signify hun- 
gering after fish. I may remark that here is one of my 
chief difficulties about the whole story. How did king, 
commons, women, and all come to eat together at this 
feast? But it troubled none of my numerous authorities; 
so there must certainly be some natural explanation. 

Note 14, verse 429. " llie uiustering word of the clan.^^ 

Teva te it a, 

Teva te matal! 
Teva the wind, 
Teva the rain ! 

Note 15, verse 546. Note 16, verse 548. ''The star 
of the deady Venus as a morning star. I have collected 
much curious evidence as to this belief. The dead retain 
their taste for a fish diet, enter into copartnery with living 
fishers, and haunt the reef and the lagoon. The conclu- 
sion attributed to the nameless lady of the legend would 
be reached to-day, under the like circumstances, by ninety 
per cent, of Polynesians; and here I probably understate 
by one-tenth. 



THE FEAST OF FAMINE. 



THE FEAST OF FAMINE: MARQUESAN 

MANNERS. 

I. THE priest's vigil. 

In all the land of the tribe was neither fish 

nor fruit, 
And the deepest pit of popoi stood empty to 

the foot.^ 
The clans upon the left and the clans upon 

the right 
Now oiled their carven maces and scoured 

their daggers bright; 
They gat them to the thicket, to the deepest 

of the shade. 
And lay with sleepless eyes in the deadly 

ambuscade. 
And oft in the starry even the song of morn- 
ing rose. 
What time the oven smoked in the country of 

their foes; 

173 



174 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

For oft to loving hearts, and waiting ears and 

sight, 
The lads that went 'to forage returned not with 

the night. lo 

Now first the children sickened, and then the 

women paled, 
And the great arms of the warrior no more for 

war availed. 
Hushed was the deep drum, discarded was the 

dance; 
And those that met the priest now glanced at 

him askance. 
The priest was a man of years, his eyes were 

ruby-red,'^ 
He neither feared the dark nor the terrors of 

the dead. 
He knew the songs of races, the names of 

ancient date; 
And the beard upon his bosom would have 

bought the chief's estate. 
He dwelt in a high-built lodge, hard by the 

roaring shore. 
Raised on a noble terrace and with tikis ^ at 

the door. 20 



MAROUESAN MANNERS. 175 

Within it was full of riches, for he served his 

nation well, 
And full of the sound of breakers, like the 

hollow of a shell. 
For weeks he let them perish, gave never a 

helping sign, 
But sat on his oiled platform to commune 

with the divine. 
But sat on his high terrace, with the tikis by 

his side. 
And stared on the blue ocean, like a parrot, 

ruby-eyed. 



Dawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the 

mountain height: 
Out on the round of the sea the gems of the 

morning light. 
Up from the round of the sea the streamers of 

the sun ; — 
But down in the depths of the valley the day 

was not begun. 30 

In the blue of the woody twilight burned red 

the cocoa-husk, 



176 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

And the women and men of the clan went 

forth to bathe in the dusk. 
A word that began to go round, a word, a 

whisper, a start: 
Hope that leaped in the bosom, fear that 

knocked on the heart: 
"See, the priest is not risen — look, for his 

door is fast! 
He is going to name the victims; he is going 

to help us at last." 



Thrice rose the sun to noon; and ever, like 

one of the dead, 
The priest lay still in his house with the roar 

of the sea in his head; 
There was never a foot on the floor, there was 

never a whisper of speech; 
Only the leering tikis stared on the blinding 

beach. 40 

Again were the mountains fired, again the 

morning broke; 
And all the houses lay still, but the house of 

the priest awoke. 



M^ftQUESAN MANNERS. 177 

Close in their covering roofs lay and trembled 

the clan, 
But the aged, red-eyed priest ran forth like a 

lunatic man; 
And the village panted to see him in the jewels 

of death again, 
In the silver beards of the old and the hair of 

women slain. 
Frenzy shook in his limbs, frenzy shone in his 

eyes. 
And still and again as he ran, the valley rang 

with his cries. 
All day long in the land, by cliff and thicket 

and den. 
He ran his lunatic rounds, and howled for the 

flesh of men; ~ 50 

All day long he ate not, nor ever drank of the 

brook ; 
And all day long in their houses the people 

listened and shook — 
All day long in their houses they listened with 

bated breath. 
And never a soul went forth, for the sight of 

the priest was death. 



178 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

Three were the days of his riyining, as the 

gods appointed of yore, 
Two the nights of his sleeping alone in the 

place of gore : 
The drunken slumber of frenzy twice he drank 

to the lees, 
On the sacred stones of the High-place under 

the sacred trees; 
With a lamp at his ashen head he lay in the 

place of the feast, 
And the sacred leaves of the banyan rustled 

around the priest. 60 

Last, when the stated even fell upon terrace 

and tree. 
And the shade of the lofty island lay leagues 

away to sea, 
And all the valleys of verdure were heavy with 

manna and musk. 
The wreck of the red-eyed priest came gasping 

home in the dusk. 
He reeled across the village, he staggered along 

the shore. 
And between the leering tikis crept groping 

through his door. 



MARQUES AN MANNERS. 179 

There went a stir through the lodges, the voice 

of speech awoke; 
Once more from the builded platforms arose 

the evening smoke. 
And those who were mighty in war, and those 

renowned for an art 
Sat in their stated seats and talked of the 

morrow apart. 



II. THE LOVERS. 

Hark ! away in the woods — for the ears of 
love are sharp — 

Stealthily, quietly touched, the note of the one- 
stringed harp.'* 

In the lighted house of her father, why should 
Taheia start? 

Taheia heavy of hair, Taheia tender of 
heart, 

Taheia the well-descended, a bountiful dealer 
in love. 

Nimble of foot like the deer, and kind of eye 
like the dove? 



180 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

Sly and shy as a cat, with never a change of 

face, 
Taheia slips to the door, like one that would 

breathe a space; 
Saunters and pauses, and looks at the stars, 

and lists to the seas; 
Then sudden and swift as a cat, she plunges 

under the trees. So 

Swift as a cat she runs, with her garment gath- 
ered high, 
Leaping, nimble of foot, running, certain of 

eye; 
And ever to guide her way over the smooth and 

the sharp, 
Ever nearer and nearer the note of the one-- 

stringed harp; 
Till at length, in a glade of the wood, with a 

naked mountain above, 
The sound of the harp thrown down, and she 

in the arms of her love. 
" Rua ! " — " Taheia ! " they cry — " my heart, my 

soul, and my eyes," 
And clasp and sunder and kiss, with lovely 

laughter and sighs, 



M/IRQUrS^N MANNERS. , 181 

"Rua!" — "Taheia, my love," — "Rua, star of 

my night, 
Clasp me, hold me, and love me, single spring 

of delight." 90 

And Riia folded her close, he folded her near 

and long, 
The living knit to the living, and sang the 

lover's song: 

Night, night it is, night upon the palms. 
Night, night it is, the land wind has blown. 
Starry, starry nig Jit, over deep and height; 
Love, love in the valley, love all alone. 



"Taheia, heavy of hair, a foolish thing have 

we done. 
To bind what gods have sundered unkindly into 

one. 
Why should a lowly lover have touched Taheia's 

skirt, 
Taheia the well-descended, and Rua child of 

the dirt? " 100 



182 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

— "On high with the haka-ikis my father sits 

in state, 
Ten times fifty kinsmen salute him in the gate; 
Round all his martial body, and in bands across 

his face. 
The marks of the tattooer proclaim his lofty 

place. 
I, too, in the hands of the cunning, in the 

sacred cabin of palm,^ 
Have shrunk like the mimosa, and bleated like 

the lamb; 
Round half my tender body, that none shall 

clasp but you, 
For a crest and a fair adornment go dainty 

lines of blue. 
Love, love, beloved Rua, love levels all de- 
grees. 
And the well-tattooed Taheia clings panting to 

your knees." no 

— "Taheia, song of the morning, how long is 

the longest love? 
A cry, a clasp of the hands, a star that falls 
from above ! 



MARQUESAN MANNERS. 183 

Ever at morn in the blue, and at night when 

all is black, 
Ever it skulks and trembles with the hunter. 

Death, on its track. 
Hear me, Taheia, death ! For to-morrow the 

priest shall awake, 
And the names be named of the victims to 

bleed for the nation's sake; 
And first of the numbered many that shall be 

slain ere noon, 
Rua the child of the dirt, Rua the kinless loon. 
For him shall the drum be beat, for him be 

raised the song. 
For him to the sacred High-place the chaunting 

people throng, 120 

For him the oven smoke as for a speechless 

beast. 
And the sire of my Taheia come greedy to the 

feast." 
— "Rua, be silent, spare me. Taheia closes 

her ears. 
Pity my yearning heart, pity my girlish years! 
Flee from the cruel hands, flee from the knife 

and coal. 



184 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

Lie hid in the deeps of the woods, Rua, sire 
of my soul ! " 

"Whither to flee, Taheia, whither in all of the 

land? 
The fires of the bloody kitchen are kindled 

on every hand; 
On every hand in the isle a hungry whetting 

of teeth, 
Eyes in the trees above, arms in the brush 

beneath. 130 

Patience to lie in wait, cunning to follow the 

sleuth, 
Abroad the foes I have fought, and at home 

the friends of my youth." 

"Love, love, beloved Rua, love has a clearer 

eye. 
Hence from the arms of love you go not forth 

to die. 
There, where the broken mountain drops sheer 

into the glen. 
There shall you find a hold from the boldest 

hunter of men; 



MARQUES AN MANNERS. 185 

There, in the deep recess, where the sun falls 

only at noon, 
And only once in the night enters the light 

of the moon, 
Nor ever a sound but of birds, or the rain 

when it falls with a shout; 
For death and the fear of death beleaguer the 

valley about. 140 

Tapu it is, but the gods will surely pardon 

despair; 
Tapu, but what of that? If Rua can only 

dare. 
Tapu and tapu and tapu, I know they are every 

one right; 
But the god of every tapu is not always quick 

to smite. 
Lie secret there, my Rua, in the arms of awful 

gods, 
Sleep in the shade of the trees on the couch of 

the kindly sods, 
Sleep and dream of Taheia, Taheia will wake 

for you; 
And whenever the land wind blows and the 

woods are heavy with dew, 



186 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

Alone through the horror of night/ with food 

for the soul of her love, 
Taheia the undissuaded will hurry true as the 

dove." * 150 



"Taheia, the pit of the night crawls with 

treacherous things. 
Spirits of ultimate air and the evil souls of 

things; 
The souls of the dead, the stranglers, that 

perch in the trees of the wood, 
Waiters for all things human, haters of evil 

and good." 



"Rua, behold me, kiss me, look in my eyes 

and read; 
Are these the eyes of a maid that would leave 

her lover in need? 
Brave in the eye of day, my father ruled in 

the fight; 
The child of his loins, Taheia, will play the 

man in the night." 



MAROUESAN MANNERS. 187 

So it was spoken, and so agreed, and Taheia 

arose 
And smiled in the stars and was gone, swift as 

the swallow goes; i6o 

And Rua stood on the hill, and sighed, and 

followed her flight. 
And there were the lodges below, each with its 

door alight; 
From folk that sat on the terrace and drew out 

the even long 
Sudden crowings of laughter, monotonous drone 

of song; 
The quiet passage of souls over his head in 

the trees; '^ 
And from all around the haven the crumbling 

thunder of seas. 
"Farewell, my home," said Rua. "Farewell, 

O quiet seat! 
To-morrow in all your valleys the drum of death 

shall beat." 



188 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 



III. THE FEAST. 

Dawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the naked 

peak, 
And all the village was stirring, for now was the 

priest to speak. 170 

Forth on his terrace he came, and sat with the 

chief in talk; 
His lips were blackened with fever, his cheeks 

were whiter than chalk; 
Fever clutched at his hands, fever nodded his 

head, 
But, quiet and steady and cruel, his eyes shone 

ruby-red. 
In the earliest rays of the sun the chief rose 

up content; 
Braves were summoned, and drummers; mes- 
sengers came and went; 
Braves ran to their lodges, weapons were 

snatched from the wall; 
The commons herded together, and fear was 

over them all. 



MA ROUES /IN MANNERS. 189 

Festival dresses they wore, but the tongue was 

dry in their mouth, 

And the blinking eyes in their faces skirted 

from north to south. iSo 



Now to the sacred enclosure gathered the 

greatest and least, 
And from under the shade of the Banyan arose 

the voice of the feast, 
The frenzied roll of the drum, and a swift, 

monotonous song. 
Higher the sun swam up; the trade wind level 

and strong 
Awoke in the tops of the palms and rattled the 

fans aloud, 
And over the garlanded heads and shining robes 

of the crowd 
Tossed the spiders of shadow, scattered the 

jewels of sun. 
Forty the tale of the drums, and the forty 

throbbed like one; 
A thousand hearts in the crowd, and the even 

chorus of song, 



190 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

Swift as the feet of a runner, trampled a thou- 
sand strong. 190 

And the old men leered at the ovens and 
licked their lips for the food; 

And the women stared at the lads, and laughed 
and looked to the wood. 

As when the sweltering baker, at night, when 
the city is dead. 

Alone in the trough of labour treads and fashions 
the bread; 

So in the heat, and the reek, and the touch of 
woman and man. 

The naked spirit of evil kneaded the hearts of 
the clan. 



Now cold was at many a heart, and shaking 
in many a seat; 

For there were the empty baskets, but who was 
to furnish the meat? 

For here was the nation assembled, and there 
were the ovens anigh, 

And out of a thousand singers nine were num- 
bered to die. 200 



MA ROUE SAN MANNERS. 191 

Till, of a sudden, a shock, a mace in the air, a yell. 

And, struck in the edge of the crowd, the first 
of the victims fell.® 

Terror and horrible glee divided the shrinking 
clan, 

Terror of what was to follow, glee for a diet of 
man. 

Frenzy hurried the chaunt, frenzy rattled the 
drums ; 

The nobles, high on the terrace, greedily 
mouthed their thumbs; 

And once and again and again, in the ignorant 
crowd below, 

Once and again and again descended the mur- 
derous blow. 

Now smoked the oven, and now, with the cut- 
ting lip of a shell, 

A butcher of ninety winters jointed the bodies 
well. 2IO 

Unto the carven lodge, silent, in order due, 

The grandees of the nation one after one with- 
drew ; 

And a line of laden bearers brought to the 
terrace foot, 



192 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

On poles across their shoulders, the last reserve 
of fruit. 

The victims bled for the nobles in the old ap- 
pointed way; 

The fruit was spread for the commons, for all 
should eat to-day. 



And now was the kava brewed, and now the 

cocoa ran. 
Now was the hour of the dance for child and 

woman and man; 
And mirth was in every heart, and a garland 

on every head. 
And all was well with the living and well with 

the eight who were dead. 220 

Only the chiefs and the priest talked and con- 
sulted awhile : 
"To-morrow," they said, and "To-morrow," 

and nodded and seemed to smile : 
" Rua the child of dirt, the creature of common 

clay, 
Rua must die to-morrow, since Rua is gone 

to-day." 



MARQUESAN MANNERS. 193 

Out of the groves of the valley, where clear the 

blackbirds sang, 
Sheer from the trees of the valley the face of 

the mountain sprang; 
Sheer and bare it rose, unscalable barricade. 
Beaten and blown against by the generous 

draught of the trade. 
Dawn on its fluted brow painted rainbow light, 
Close on its pinnacled crown trembled the stars 

at night. 230 

Here and there in a cleft clustered contorted 

trees. 
Or the silver beard of a stream hung and swung 

in the breeze. 
High overhead, with a cry, the torrents leaped 

for the main. 
And silently sprinkled below in thin perennial 

rain. 
Dark in the staring noon, dark was Rua's 

ravine, 
Damp and cold was the air, and the face of 

the cliffs was green. 
Here, in the rocky pit, accursed already of 

old, 



194 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

On a stone in the midst of a river, Rua sat 
and was cold. 

"Valley of mid-day shadows, valley of silent 

falls," 
Rua sang, and his voice went hollow about the 

walls, 240 

"Valley of shadow and rock, a doleful prison 

to me. 
What is the life you can give to a child of 

the sun and the sea?" 

And Rua arose and came to the open mouth of 

the glen. 
Whence he beheld the woods, and the sea, and 

houses of men. 
Wide blew the riotous trade, and smelt in his 

nostrils good; 
It bowed the boats on the bay, and tore and 

divided the wood; 
It smote and sundered the groves as Moses 

smote with the rod. 
And the streamers of all the trees blew like 

banners abroad; 



MA ROUES AN MANNERS. 195 

And ever and on, in a lull, the trade wind 

brought him along 

A far-off patter of drums and a far-off whisper 

of song. 250 

Swift as the swallow's wings, the diligent hands 

on the drum 
Fluttered and hurried and throbbed. " Ah, woe 

that I hear you come," 
Rua cried in his grief, "a sorrowful sound to me. 
Mounting far and faint from the resonant shore 

of the sea ! 
Woe in the song! for the grave breathes in the 

singers' breath, 
And I hear in the tramp of the drums the beat 

of the heart of death. 
Home of my youth ! no more, through all the 

length of the years. 
No more to the place of the echoes of early 

laughter and tears, 
No more shall Rua return; no more as the 

evening ends. 
To crowded eyes of welcome, to the reaching 

hands of friends." 260 



196 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

All day long from the High-place the drums 

and the singing came, 
And the even fell, and the sun went down, a 

wheel of flame; 
And. night came gleaning the shadows and 

hushing the sounds of the w^ood; 
And silence slept on all, where Rua sorrowed 

and stood. 
But «till from the shore of the bay the sound 

of the festival rang. 
And still the crowd in the High-place danced 

and shouted and sang. 

Now over all the isle terror was breathed abroad 
Of shadowy hands from the trees and shadowy 

snares in the sod; 
And before the nostrils of night, the shuddering 

hunter of men 
Hurried, with beard on shoulder, back to his 

lighted den. > 270 

"Taheia, here to my side!" — "Rua, my Rua, 

you ! " 
And cold from the clutch of terror, cold vvith 

the damp of the dew, 



MARQUESAN MANNERS. 197 

Taheia, heavy of hair, leaped through the dark 

to his arms; 
Taheia leaped to his clasp, and was folded in 

from alarms. 

"Rua, beloved, here, see what your love has 

brought; 
Coming — alas! returning — swift as the shuttle 

of thought; 
Returning, alas! for to-night, with the beaten 

drum and the voice. 
In the shine of many torches must the sleep- 
less clan rejoice; 
And Taheia the well-descended, the daughter of 

chief and priest, 
Taheia must sit in her place in the crowded 

bench of the feast." 280 

So it was spoken; and she, girding her garment 

high, 
Fled and was swallowed of woods, swift as the 

sight of an eye. 

Night over isle and sea rolled her curtain of 
stars. 



198 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

Then a trouble awoke in the air, the east was 

' banded with bars; 
Dawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the 

mountain height; 
Dawn, in the deepest glen, fell a wonder of 

light; 
High and clear stood the palms in the eye of 

the brightening east. 
And lo! from the sides of the sea the broken 

sound of the feast! 
As, when in days of summer, through open 

windows, the fly 
Swift as a breeze and loud as a trump goes 

by, 290 

But when frosts in the field have pinched the 

wintering mouse, 
Blindly noses and buzzes and hums in the fire- 
lit house: 
So the sound of the feast gallantly trampled at 

night, 
So it staggered and drooped, and droned in the 

morning light. 



MARQUESAN MANNERS. 199 



IV. THE RAID. 

It chanced that as Rua sat in the valley of 

silent falls, 
He heard a calling of doves from high on the 

cliffy walls. 
Fire had fashioned of yore, and time had 

broken, the rocks; 
There were rooting crannies for trees and 

nesting-places for flocks; 
And he saw on the top of the cliffs, looking 

up from the pit of the shade, 
A flicker of wings and sunshine, and trees that 

swung in the trade. 300 

"The trees swing in the trade," quoth Rua, 

doubtful of words, 
"xAnd the sun stares from the sky, but what 

should trouble the birds?" 
Up from the shade he gazed, where high the 

parapet shone, 
And he was aware of a ledge and of things that 
moved thereon. 



200 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

"What manner of things are these? Are they 

spirits abroad by day? 
Or the foes of my clan that are come, bringing 

death by a perilous way?" 

The valley was gouged like a vessel, and round 

like the vessel's lip. 
With a cape of the side of the hill thrust forth 

like the bows of a ship. 
On the top of the face of the cape a volley of 

sun struck fair, 
And the cape overhung like a chin a gulph of 

sunless air. 310 

"Silence, heart! What is that? — that, that 

flickered and shone, 
Into the sun for an instant, and in an instant 

gone ? 
Was it a warrior's plume, a warrior's girdle of 

hair? 
Swung in the loop of a rope, is he making a 

bridge of the air? " 

Once and again Rua saw, in the trenchant 
edge of the sky, 



MAROUESAN MANNERS. 201 

The giddy conjuring done. And then, in the 

blink of an eye, 
A scream caught in with the breath, a whirling 
* packet of limbs, 
A lump that dived in the gulph, more swift 

than a dolphin swims; 
And there was the lump at his feet, and eyes 

were alive in the lump. 
Sick was the soul of Rua, ambushed close in 

a clump; 320 

Sick of soul he drew near, making his courage 

stout ; 
And he looked in the face of the thing, and 

the life of the thing went out. 
And he gazed on the tattooed limbs, and, 

behold, he knew the man: 
Hoka, a chief of the Vais, the truculent foe of 

his clan : 
Hoka a moment since that stepped in the loop 

of the rope. 
Filled with the lust of war, and alive with 

courage and hope. 

Again to the giddy cornice Rua lifted his eyes, 



202 THE FEAST OP FAMINE: 

And again beheld men passing in the armpit 

of the sivies. 
" Foes of my race ! " cried Rua, " the mouth of 

Rua is true : 
Never a shark in the deep is nobler of soul 

than you. 330 

There was never a nobler foray, never a bolder 

plan ; 
Never a dizzier path was trod by the children 

of man; 
And Rua, your evil-dealer through all the days 

of his years, 
Counts it honour to hate you, honour to fall 

by your spears." 



And Rua straightened his back. "O Vais, a 
scheme for a scheme ! " 

Cried Rua and turned and descended the tur- 
bulent stair of the stream. 

Leaping from rock to rock as the water-wagtail 
at home 

Flits through resonant valleys and skims by 
boulder and foam. 



MAROUESAN MANNERS. 203 

And Rua burst from the glen and leaped on 

the shore of the brook, 
And straight for the roofs of the clan his vig- 
orous way he took. 340 
Swift were the heels of his flight, and loud 

behind as he went 
Rattled the leaping stones on the line of his 

long descent. 
And ever he thought as he ran, and caught at 

his gasping breath, 
"O the fool of a Rua, Rua that runs to his 

death ! 
But the right, is the right," thought Rua, and 

ran like the wind on the foam, 
"The right is the right for ever, and home for 

ever home. 
For what though the oven smoke? And what 

though I die ere morn? 
There was I nourished and tended, and there 

was Taheia born." 
Noon was high on the High-place, the second 

noon of the feast; 
And heat and shameful slumber weighed on 

people and priest; 350 



204 THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

And the heart drudged slow in bodies heavy 

with monstrous meals; 
And the senseless limbs were scattered abroad 

like spokes of wheels; 
And crapulous women sat and stared at the 

stones anigh 
With a bestial droop of the lip and a swinish 

rheum in the eye. 
As about the dome of the bees in the time for 

the drones to fall, 
The dead and the maimed are scattered, and 

lie, and stagger, and crawl; 
So on the grades of the terrace, . in the ardent 

eye of the day. 
The half-awake and the sleepers clustered and 

crawled and lay; 
And loud as the dome of the bees, in the time 

of a swarming horde, 
A horror of many insects hung in the air and 

roared. 360 



Rua looked and wondered; he said to himself 
in his heart: 



i 



MAROUESAN MANNERS. 205 

"Poor are the pleasures of life, and death is 

the better part." 
But lo ! on the higher benches a cluster of 

tranquil folk 
Sat by themselves, nor raised their serious eyes, 

nor spoke : 
Women with robes unruffled and garlands duly 

arranged. 
Gazing far from the feast with faces of people 

estranged; 
And quiet amongst the quiet, and fairer than 

all the fair, 
Taheia, the well-descended, Taheia, heavy of 

hair. 
And the soul of Rua awoke, courage en- 
lightened his eyes. 
And he uttered a summoning shout and called 

on the clan to rise. -,70 



Over against him at once, in the spotted shade 

of the trees, 
Owlish and blinking creatures scrambled to 

hands and knees; 



20G THE FEAST OF FAMINE: 

On the grades of the sacred terrace, the drivel- 
ler woke to fear, 
And the hand of the ham-drooped warrior 

brandished a wavering spear. 
And Rua folded his arms, and scorn discovered 

his teeth; 
Above the war-crowd gibbered, and Rua stood 

smiling beneath. 
Thick, like leaves in the autumn, faint, like 

April sleet, 
Missiles from tremulous hands quivered around 

his feet; 
And Taheia leaped from her place; and the 

priest, the ruby-eyed, 
Ran to the front of the terrace, and brandished 

his arms, and cried : 3S0 

"Hold, O fools, he brings tidings! " and "Hold, 

'tis the love of my heart!" 
Till lo! in front of the terrace, Rua pierced 

with a dart. 



Taheia cherished his head, and the aged priest 
stood by, 



M/iROUESAN MANNERS. 207 

And gazed with eyes of ruby at Rua's darkening 

eye. 
"Taheia, here is the end, I die a death for a 

man. 
I have given the life of my soul to save an 

unsavable clan. 
See them, the drooping of hams! behold me 

the blinking crew: 
Fifty spears they cast, and one of fifty true ! 
And you, O priest, the foreteller, foretell for 

yourself if you can. 
Foretell the hour of the day when the Vais shall 

burst on your clan ! 390 

By the head of the tapu cleft, with death and 

fire in their hand. 
Thick and silent like ants, the warriors swarm 

in the land." 



And they tell that when next the sun had 

climbed to the noonday skies. 
It shone on the smoke of feasting in the country 

of the Vais. 



NOTES TO THE FEAST OF FAMINE. 

In this ballad I have strung together some of the more 
striking particularities of the Marquesas. It rests upon no 
authority; it is in no sense, like " Rahero," a native stoiy; 
but a patchwork of details of manners and the impressionc 
of a traveller. It may seem strange, when the scene is laid 
upon these profligate islands, to make the story hinge on 
love. But love is not less known in the Marquesas than 
elsewhere; nor is there any cause of suicide more common 
in the islands. 

Note I, verse 2. "■Pit of popoi^ Where the bread- 
fruit was stored for preservation. 

Note 2, verse 15. '■^ Ruby -red. ^'' The priest's eyes were 
probably red from the abuse of Rava. His ]-)eard (verse 
18) is said to ])e worth an estate; for the beards of old 
men are the favourite head adornment of the Marquesans, 
as the hair of women formed their most costly girdle. The 
former, among this generally beardless and short-lived 
people, fetch to-day considerable sums. 

Note 3, verse 20. " TikisP The tiki is an ugly image 
hewn out of wood or stone. 

Note 4, verse 72. " The one-stringed harp:' Usually 
employed for serenades. 

Note 5; verse 105. ^^The sacred cabin of palinP 
Which, however, no woman could approach. I do not 
know where women were tattooed; probal)ly in the com- 
208 



NOTES TO THE FEAST OF FAMINE. 209 

mon house, or in the bush, for a woman was a creature of 
small account. I must guar<.l the reader against supposing 
Taheia was at all disfigured; the art of the Marquesan 
tattooer is extreme; and she would appear to be clothed 
in a web of lace, inimitably delicate, exquisite in pattern, 
and of a bluish hue that at once contrasts and harmonizes 
with the warm pigment of the native skin. It would be 
hard to find a woman more becomingly adorned than " a 
well-tattooed " Marquesan. 

Note 6, verse 149. " 77ie horror of night P The Poly- 
nesian fear of ghosts and of the dark has been already 
referred to. Their life is beleaguered by the dead. 

Note 7, verse 165. " The quiet passage of souls.^'' So, I 
am told, the natives explain the sound of a little wind pass- 
ing overhead unfelt. 

Note 8, verse 202. " The first of the victims fellP 
Without doubt, this whole scene is untrue to fact. The 
victims were disposed of privately and some time before. 
And indeed I am far from claiming the credit of any high 
degree of accuracy for this ballad. Even in a time of fam- 
ine, it is probable that Marquesan life went far more gaily 
than is here represented. But the melancholy of to-day 
lies on the writer's mind. 



TICONDEROGA. 



TICONDEROGA: A LEGEND OF THE 
WEST HIGHLANDS. 

This is the tale of the man 

Who heard a word in the night 
In the land of the heathery hills, 

In the days of the feud and the fight. 
By the sides of the rainy sea, 

Where never a stranger came, 
On the awful lips of the dead, 

He heard the outlandish name. 
It sang in his sleeping ears. 

It hummed in his waking head: i 

The name — Ticonderoga, 

The utterance of the dead. 

I. THE SAYING OF THE NAME. 

On the loch-sides of Appin, 

When the mist blew from the sea, 

A Stewart stood with a Cameron: 
An angry man was he. 
213 



214 TICONDEROGA : A LEGEND OF 

The blood beat in his ears, 

The blood ran hot to his head, 
The mist blew from the sea, 

And there was the Cameron dead. 
"O, what have I done to my friend, 

O, what have I done to mysel', 
That he should be cold and dead. 

And I in the danger of all? 
Nothing but danger about me, 

Danger behind and before, 
Death at wait in the heather 

In Appin and Mamore, 
Hate at all of the ferries 

And death at each of the fords, 
Camerons priming gunlocks 

And Camerons sharpening swords." 



But this was a man of counsel, 
This was a man of a score. 

There dwelt no pawkier Stewart 
In Appin or Mamore. 

He looked on the blowing mist. 
He looked on the awful dead. 



3° 




l.k^.V 




" O, what have I done to rry Friend?' 



THE IV EST HIGHLANDS. 215 

And there came a smile on his face 39 

And there slipped a thought in his head. 
Out over cairn and moss, 

Out over scrog and scaur, 
He ran as runs the clansman 

That bears the cross of war. 
His heart beat in his body, 

His hair clove to his face, 
When he came at last in the gloaming 

To the dead man's brother's place. 
The east was white with the moon, 

The west with the sun was red, 50 

And there, in the house-doorway, 

Stood the brother of the dead. 



"I have slain a man to my danger, 

I have slain a man to my death. 
I put my soul in your hands," 

The panting Stewart saith. 
"I lay it bare in your hands. 

For I know your hands are leal; 
And be you my targe and bulwark 

From the bullet and the steel." 60 



216 TICONDEROGA : A LEGEND OF 

Then up and spoke the Cameron, 

And gave him his hand again: 
"There shall never a man in Scotland 

Set faith in me in vain; 
And whatever man you have slaughtered, 

Of whatever name or line. 
By my sword and yonder mountain, 

I make your quarrel mine.^ 
I bid you in to my fireside, 

I share with you house and hall; 70 

It stands upon my honour 

To see you safe from all." 

It fell in the time of midnight. 

When the fox barked in the den 
And the plaids were over the faces 

In all the houses of men. 
That as the living Cameron 

Lay sleepless on his bed. 
Out of the night and the other world, 

Came in to him the dead. 80 

"My blood is on the heather. 
My bones are on the hill; 



THE WEST HIGHLANDS. 217 

There is joy in the home of ravens 
That the young shall eat their fill. 

My blood is poured in the dust, 
My soul is spilled in the air; 

And the man that has undone me 
Sleeps in my brother's care." 

"I'm wae for your death, my brother, 
But if all of my house were dead, 90 

I couldnae withdraw the plighted hand, 
Nor break the word once said." 

"O, what shall I say to our father, 

In the place to which I fare? 
O, what shall I say to our mother, 

Who greets to see me there? 
And to all the kindly Camerons 

That have lived and died long-syne — 
Is this the word you send them, 

Fause-hearted brother mine?" 100 

"It's neither fear nor duty, 

It's neither quick nor dead 
Shall gar me withdraw the plighted hand, 

Or break the word once said." 



218 TICONDEROGA : A LEGEND OF 

Thrice in the time of midnight, 

When the fox barked in the den, 
• And the plaids were over the faces 

In all the houses of men, 
Thrice as the living Cameron 

Lay sleepless on his bed, 
Out of the night and the other world 

Came in to him the dead, 
And cried to him for vengeance 

On the man that laid him low; 
And thrice the living Cameron 

Told the dead Cameron, no. 



"Thrice have you seen me, brother, 

But now shall see me no more. 
Till you meet your angry fathers 

Upon the farther shore. 
Thrice have I spoken, and now, 

Before the cock be heard, 
I take my leave for ever 

With the naming of a word. 
It shall sing in your sleeping ears, 

It shall hum in your waking head, 



THE IVFST HIGHLANDS. 219 

The name — Ticonderoga, 

And the warnins: of the dead." 



Now when the night was over 

And the time of people's fears, 130 

The Cameron walked abroad, 

And the word was in his ears. 
"Many a name I know, 

But never a name like this; 
O, where shall I find a skilly man 

Shall tell me what it is?" 
With many a man he counselled 

Of high and low degree, 
With the herdsmen on the mountains 

And the fishers of the sea. 140 

And he came and went unweary, 

And read the books of yore, 
And the runes that were written of old 

On stones upon the moor. 
And many a name he was told. 

But never the name of his fears — 
Never, in east or west, 

The name that rang in his ears: 



220 TICONDEROGA : A LEGEND OF 

Names of men and of clans, 

Names for the grass and the tree, 150 
For the smallest tarn in the mountains. 

The smallest reef in the sea: 
Names for the high and low, 

The names of the craig and the flat; 
But in all the land of Scotland, 

Never a name like that. 



II. THE SEEKING OF THE NAME. 

And now there was speech in the south. 

And a man of the south that was wise, 
A periwig'd lord of London, - 

Called on the clans to rise. 160 

And the riders rode, and the summons 

Came to the western shore, 
To the land of the sea and the heather. 

To Appin and Mamo^e. 
It called on all to gather 

From every scrog and scaur. 
That loved their fathers' tartan 

And the ancient game of war. 



THE IVEST HIGHLANDS. 221 

And down the watery valley 

And up the windy hill, 
Once more, as in the olden. 

The pipes were sounding shrill; 
Again in highland sunshine 

The naked steel was bright; 
And the lads, once more in tartan, 

Went forth again to fight. 



"O, why should I dwell here 

With a weird upon my life, 
When the clansmen shout for battle 

And the war-swords clash in strife? i8o 
I cannae joy at feast, 

I cannae sleep in bed. 
For the \vonder of the word 

And the warning of the dead. 
It sings in my sleeping ears. 

It hums in my waking head, 
The name — Ticonderoga, 

The utterance of the dead. 
Then up, and with the fighting men 

To march away from here, 190 



222 TICONDEROGA : A LEGEND OF 

Till the cry of the great war-pipe 
Shall drown it in my ear!" 



Where flew King George's ensign 

The plaided soldiers went: 
They drew the sword in Germany, 

In Flanders pitched the tent. 
The bells of foreign cities 

Rang far across the plain: 
They passed the happy Rhine, 

They drank the rapid Main. 200 

Through Asiatic jungles 

The Tartans filed their way, 
And the neighing of the war-pipes 

Struck terror in Cathay.^ 
"Many a name have I heard," he thought, 

" In all the tongues of men, 
Full many a name both here and there, 

Full many both now and then. 
When I was at home in my father's house 

In the land of the naked knee, 210 

Between the eagles that fly in the lift 

And the herrings that swim in the sea, 



THE IV EST HIGHLANDS. 223 

And now that I am a captain-man 
With a braw cockade in my hat — 

Many a name have I heard," he thought, 
"But never a name like that." 



III. THE PLACE OF THE NAME. 

There fell a war in a woody place, 

Lay far across the sea, 
A war of the march in the mirk midnight 

And the shot from behind the tree, 220 
The shaven head and the painted face. 

The silent foot in the wood, 
In a land of a strange, outlandish tongue 

That was hard to be understood. 

It fell about the gloaming 

The general stood with his staff. 
He stood and he looked east and west 

With little mind to laugh. 
"Far have I been and much have I seen, 

And kent both gain and loss, 230 

But here we have woods on every hand 

And a kittle water to cross. 



224 TICONDEROG/I : A LEGEND OF 

Far have I been and much have I seen, 

But never the beat of this; 
And there 's one must go down to that waterside 

To see how deep it is." 

It fell in the dusk of the night 

When unco things betide, 
The skilly captain, the Cameron, 

Went down to that waterside. 240 

Canny and soft the captain went; 

And a man of the woody land, 
With the shaven head and the painted face, 

Went down at his right hand. 
It fell in the quiet night. 

There was never a sound to ken; 
But all of the woods to the right and the left 

Lay filled with the painted men. 

" Far have I been and much have I seen, 
Both as a man and boy, - 25c 

But never have I set forth a foot 
On so perilous an employ." 

It fell in the dusk of the night 
When unco thinsjs betide, 



THE IVEST HIGHLANDS. 225 

That he was aware of a captain-man 

Drew near to the waterside. 
He was aware of his coming 

Down in the gloaming alone; 
And he looked in the face of the man 

And lo ! the face was his own. 260 

"This is my weird," he said, 

"And now I ken the worst; 
For many shall fall the morn, 

But I shall fall with the first. 
O, you of the outland tongue, 

You of the painted face. 
This is the place of my death; 

Can you tell me the name of the place? " 



"Since the Frenchmen have been here 

They have called it Sault-Marie; 
But that is a name for priests. 

And not for you and me. 
It went by another word," 

Quoth he of the shaven head: 
"It was called Ticonderoga 

In the days of the great dead." 



270 



226 TICONDEROGA : A LEGEND. 

And it fell on the morrow's morning, 

In the fiercest of the fight, 
That the Cameron bit the dust 

As he foretold at night; aSc 

And far from the hills of heather. 

Far from the isles of the sea, 
He sleeps in the place of the name 

As it was doomed to be. 



NOTES TO TICONDEROGA. 

Introduction. — I first heard this legend of my own 
country from that friend of men of letters, Mr. Alfred Nutt, 
" there in roaring London's central stream "; and since the 
ballad first saw the light of day in Scribner''s Magazijie, 
Mr. Nutt and Lord Archibald Campbell have been in pubHc 
controversy on the facts. Two clans, the Camerons and 
the Campbells, lay claim to this bracing story; and they 
do well : the man who preferred his plighted troth to the 
commands and menaces of the dead is an ancestor worth 
disputing. But the Campbells must rest content : they 
have the broad lands and the broad page of history; this 
appanage must be denied them; for between the name of 
Cameron and that of Campbell, the muse will never hesi- 
tate. 

Note I, verse 68. Mr, Nutt reminds me it was " by my 
sword and Ben Cruachan " the Cameron swore. 

Note 2, verse 159. 'M periwig' d lord of London^ 
The first Pitt. 

Note 3, verse 204. " Cathay.'''' There must be some 
omission in General Stewart's charming " History of the 
Highland Regiments," a book that might well be repub- 
lished "and continued; or it scarce appears how our friend 
could have got to China. 



227 



HEATHER ALE. 



HEATHER ALE: A GALLOWAV 
LEGEND. 

From the bonny bells of heather 

They brewed a drink long-syne, 
Was sweeter far than honey, 

Was stronger far than wine. 
They brewed it and they drank it. 

And lay in a blessed swound 
For days and days together 

In their dwellings underground. 

There rose a king in Scotland, 

A fell man to his foes, 
He smote the Picts in battle. 

He hunted them like roes. 
Over miles of the red mountain 

He hunted as they fled. 
And strewed the dwarfish bodies 

Of the dying and the dead. 
231 



232 HEATHER ALE: 

Summer came in the country, 

Red was the heather bell; 
But the manner of the brewing 

Was none alive to tell. 20 

In graves that were like children's 

On many a mountain head, 
The Brewsters of the Heather 

Lay numbered with the dead. 

The king in the red moorland 

Rode on a summer's day; 
And the bees hummed, and the curlews 

Cried beside the way. 
The king rode, and was angry, 

Black was his brow and pale, 30 

To rule in a land of heather 

And lack the Heather Ale. 

It fortuned that his vassals, 

Riding free on the heath. 
Came on a stone that was fallen 

And vermin hid beneath. 
Rudely plucked from their hiding. 

Never a word they spoke: 



A G ALLOW AY LEGEND. 233 

A son and his aged father — 

Last of the dwarfish folk. 40 

The king sat high on his charger, 

He looked on the little men; 
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple 

Looked at the king again. 
Down by the shore he had them; 

And there on the giddy brink — 
"I will give you life, ye vermin, 

For the secret of the drink." 

There stood the son and father 

And they looked high and low; 50 
The heather was red around them, 

The sea rumbled below. 
And up and spoke the father, 

Shrill was his voice to hear: 
"I have a word in private, 

A word for the royal ear. 

"Life is dear to the aged. 

And honour a little thing; 
I would gladly sell the secret," 

Quoth the Pict to the King. 60 



234 HEATHER ALE: 

His voice was small as a sparrow's, 
And shrill and wonderful clear: 

"I would gladly sell my secret, 
Only my son I fear. 

"For life is a little matter, 

And death is naught to the young; 
And I dare not sell my honour 

Under the eye of my son. 
Take hi in, O king, and bind him, 

And cast him far in the deep; 70 

And it's I will tell the secret 

That I have sworn to keep." 

They took the son and bound him. 

Neck and heels in a thong. 
And a lad took him and swung him. 

And flung him far and strong, 
And the sea swallowed his body. 

Like that of a child of ten; — 
And tliere on the cliff stood the father. 

Last of the dwarfish men. 80 

"True was the word I told you: 
Only my son I feared; 



A GALLOWAY LEGEND. 235 

For I doubt the sapling courage 
That goes without the beard. 

But now in vain is the torture, 
Fire shall never avail : 

Here dies in my bosom 

The secret of Heather Ale." 



NOTE TO HEATHER ALE. 

Among the curiosities of human nature, this legend 
claims a high place. It is needless to remind the reader 
that the Picts were never exterminated, and form to this 
day a large proportion of the folk of Scotland : occupying 
the eastern and the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, 
or perhaps the Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord 
of Caithness on the north. That the blundering guess of a 
dull chronicler should have inspired men with imaginary 
loathing for their own ancestors is already strange : that it 
should have begotten this wild legend seems incredible. 
Is it possible the chronicler's error was merely nominal? 
that what he told, and what the people proved themselves 
so ready to receive, about the Picts, was true or partly true 
of some anterior and perhaps Lappish savages, small of 
stature, black of hue, dwelling underground — possibly also 
the distillers of some forgotten spirit ? See Mr. Camp- 
bell's Tales of the West Highlands. 



236 



CHRISTMAS AT SEA. 



CHRISTMAS AT SEA. 

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the 

naked hand; 
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman 

scarce could stand; 
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off 

the sea; 
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only 

things a-lee. 

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break 

of day; 
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw 

how ill we lay. 
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with 

a shout. 
And we gave her the maintops' 1, and stood by 

to go about. 

All day we tacked and tacked between the 
South Head and the North; 
239 



240 CHRISTMAS AT SEA. 

All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no 
further forth; lo 

All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and 
dread. 

For very life and nature we tacked from head 
to head. 

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the 

tide-race roared; 
But every tack we made we brought the North 

Head close aboard: 
So 's we saw cliffs and houses, and the breakers 

running high. 
And the coastguard in his garden, with his 

glass against his eye. 

The frost was on the village roofs as white as 

ocean foam; 
The good red fires were burning bright in every 

'longshore home; 
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys 

volleyed out; 
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel 

went about. " 20 



CHRISTMAS AT SEA. 241 

The bells upon the church were rung with a 
mighty jovial cheer; 

For it's just that I should tell you how (of all 
days in the year) 

This day of our adversity was blessed Christ- 
mas morn, 

And the house above the coastguard's was the 
house where I was born. 

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant 

faces there, 
_My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver 

hair; 
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of 

homely elves. 
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand 

upon the shelves. 

And well 1 knew the talk they had, the talk 

that was of me. 
Of the shadow on the household and the son 

that went to sea; 
And () the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind 

of way, 



242 • CHRISTMAS AT SEA. 

To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed 
Christmas Day. 

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began 

to fall. 
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard 

the captain call. 
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first 

mate, Jackson, cried. 
. . . "It's the one way or the other, Mr, 

Jackson," he replied. 

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails 

were new and good. 
And the ship smelt up to windward just as 

though she understood. 
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry 

of the night. 
We cleared the weary headland, and passed 

below the light. 40 

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul 
on board but me, 



CHRISTMAS AT SEA. 243 

As they saw her nose again pointing handsome 

out to sea; 
But all that I could think of, in the darkness 

and the cold, 
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks 

were growing old. 



UNDERWOODS. 



DEDICATION. 

There are men and classes of men that 
stand above the common herd: the soldier, 
the sailor, and the shepherd not infrequently; 
the artist rarely; rarelier still, the clergyman; the 
physician almost as a rule. He is the flower 
(such as it is) of our civilization; and when 
that stage of man is done with, and only re- 
membered to be marvelled at in history, he 
will be thought to have shared as little as any 
in the defects of the period, and most notably 
exhibited the virtues of the race. Generosity 
he has, such as is possible to those who prac- 
tise an art, never to those who drive a trade; 
discretion, tested by a hundred secrets; tact, 
tried in a thousand embarrassments; and what 
are more important, Heraclean cheerfulness 
and courage. So it is that he brings air and 
cheer into the sickroom, and often enough, 
though not so often as he wishes, brings 
healing. 

247 



248 ' DEDICATION. 

Gratitude is but a lame sentiment; thanks, 
when they are expressed, are often more em- 
barrassing than welcome ; and yet I must set 
forth mine to a few out of many doctors who 
have brought me comfort and help : to Dr. 
Willey of San Francisco, whose kindness to a 
stranger it must be as grateful to him, as it is 
touching to me, to remember; to Dr. Karl 
Ruedi of Davos, the good genius of the English 
in his frosty mountains; to Dr. Herbert of 
Paris, whom I knew only for a week; and to 
Dr. Caissot of Montpellier, whom I knew only 
for ten days, and who have yet written their 
names deeply in my memory; to Dr. Brandt of 
Royat; to Dr. Wakefield of Nice; to Dr. Chep- 
mell, whose visits make it a pleasure to be ill; 
to Dr. Horace Dobell, so wise in counsel; to 
Sir Andrew Clark, so unwearied in kindness; 
and to that wise youth, my uncle, Dr. Balfour. 

I forget as many as I remember; and I ask 
both to pardon me, these for silence, those for 
inadequate speech. But one name 1 have kept 
on purpose to the last, because it is a house- 
hold word with me, and because if I had not 



DEDICATION. 249 

received favours from so many hands and in 
so many quarters of the world, it should have 
stood upon this page alone: that of my friend 
Thomas Bodley Scott of Bournemouth. Will 
he accept this, although shared among so many, 
for a dedication to himself? and when next my 
ill-fortune (which has thus its pleasant side) 
brings him hurrying to me when he would fain 
sit down to meat or lie down to rest, will he 
care to remember that he takes this trouble for 
one who is not fool enough to be ungrateful? 

R. L. S. 

Skerryvore, 

Bournemouth. 



NOTE. 

The human conscience has fled of late the 
troublesome domain of conduct for what I 
should have supposed to be the less congenial 
field of art: there she may now be said to 
rage, and with special severity in all that 
touches dialect; so that in every novel the 
letters of the alphabet are tortured, and the 
reader wearied, to commemorate shades of 
mispronunciation. Now, spelling is an art of 
great difficulty in my eyes, and I am inclined 
to lean upon the printer, even in common 
practice, rather than to venture abroad upon 
new quests. And the Scots tongue has an or- 
thography of its own, lacking neither "authority 
nor author." Yet the temptation is great to 
lend a little guidance to the bewildered Eng- 
lishman. Some simple phonetic artifice might 
defend your verses from barbarous mishandling, 
and yet not injure any vested interest. So it 
251 



252 NOTE. 

seems at first; but there are rocks ahead. 
Thus, if I wish the diphthong oir to have its 
proper value, I may write oor instead of otn- ; 
many have done so and lived, and the pillars 
of the universe remained unshaken. But if I 
did so, and came presently to dou7i, which is 
the classical Scots spelling of the English 
down, I should begin to feel uneasy; and if I 
went on a little further, and came to a clas- 
sical Scots word, like stour or dour or clou7', I 
should know precisely where I was — that is to 
say, that I was out of sight of land on those 
high seas of spelling reform in which so many 
strong swimmers have toiled vainly. To some 
the situation is exhilarating; as for me, I give 
one bubbling cry and sink. The compromise 
at which I have arrived is indefensible, and I 
have no thought of trying to defend it. As I 
have stuck for the most part to the proper spell- 
ing, I append a table of some common vowel 
sounds which no one need consult; and just to 
prove that I belong to my age and have in me 
the stuff of a reformer, I have used modifica- 
tion marks throughout. Thus I can tell myself, 



NOTE. 253 

not without pride, that I have added a fresh 
stumbling-block for English readers, and to a 
page, of print in my native tongue have lent a 
new uncouthness. Sed non nobis. 

I note again, that among our new dialec- 
ticians, the local habitat of every dialect is 
given to the square mile. I could not emulate 
this nicety if I desired; for I simply wrote my 
Scots as well as I was able, not caring if it 
hailed from Lauderdale or Angus, from the 
Mearns or Galloway; if I had ever heard a 
good word, I used it without shame; and when 
Scots was lacking, or the rhyme jibbed, I was 
glad (like my betters) to fall back on English. 
For all that, I own to a friendly feeling for the 
tongue of Fergusson and of Sir Walter, both 
Edinburgh men; and I confess that Burns has 
always sounded in my ear like something partly 
foreign. And indeed I am from the Lothians 
myself; it is there I heard the language spoken 
about my childhood; and it is in the drawling 
Lothian voice that I repeat it to myself. Let 
the precisians call my speech that of the 
Lothians. And if it be not pure, alas! what 



254 NOTE. 

matters it? The day draws near when this il- 
lustrious and malleable tongue shall be quite 
forgotten; and Burns's Ayrshire, and Dr. Mac- 
donald's Aberdeen-awa', and Scott's brave, 
metropolitan utterance will be all equally the 
ghosts of speech. Till then I would love to 
have my hour as a native Maker, and be read 
by my own countryfolk in our own dying 
language : an ambition surely rather of the 
heart than of the head, so restricted as it is 
in prospect of endurance, so parochial in 
bounds of space. 



BOOK I.— IN ENGLISH. 



ENVOY. 

Go, little book, and wish to all 
Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, 
A bin of wine, a spice of wit, 
A house with lawns enclosing it, 
A living river by the door, 
A nightingale in the sycamore ! 



255 



II. 

A SONG OF THE ROAD. 

The ganger walked with willing foot, 
And aye the gauger played the flute; 
And what should Master Gauger play 
But Over the hills and far away? 

Whene'er I buckle on my pack 
And foot it gayly in the track, 

pleasant gauger, long since dead, 

1 hear you fluting on ahead. 

You go with me the self-same way — 
The self-same air for me you play; 
For I do think and so do you 
It is the tune to travel to. 

For who would gravely set his face 
To go to this or t'other place? 
256 



A SONG OF THE ROAD. 257 

There 's nothing under heav'n so blue 
That 's fairly worth the travelling to. 

On every hand the roads begin, 
And people walk with zeal therein; 
But wheresoe'er the highways tend, 
Be sure there 's nothing at the end. 

Then follow you, wherever hie 
The travelling mountains of the sky. 
Or let the streams in civil mode 
Direct your choice upon a road; 

For one and all, or high or low, 
Will lead you where you wish to go; 
And one and all go night and day 
Oi'er the hills and far away ! 

Forest of iMoiitargis, i8y8. 



III. 

THE CANOE SPEAKS. 

On the great streams the ships may go 
About men's business to and fro. 
But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep 
On crystal waters ankle-deep : 
I, whose diminutive design, 
Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, . 
Is fashioned on so frail a mould, 
A hand may launch, a hand withhold: 
I, rather, with the leaping trout 
Wind, among lilies, in and out; 
I, the unnamed, inviolate. 
Green, rustic rivers navigate; 
My dipping paddle scarcely shakes 
The berry in the bramble-brakes; 
Still forth on my green way I wend 
Beside the cottage garden-end; 
And by the nested angler fare. 
And take the lovers unaware. 
258 



THE CANOE SPEAKS. 259 

By willow wood and water-wheel 
Speedily fleets my touching keel; 
By all retired and shady spots 
Where prosper dim forget-me-nots; 
By meadows where at afternoon 
The growing maidens troop in June 
To loose their girdles on the grass. 
Ah ! speedier than before the glass 
The backward toilet goes; and swift 
As swallows quiver, robe, and shift 
And the rough country stockings lie 
Around each young divinity. 
When, following the recondite brook, 
Sudden upon this scene I look. 
And light with unfamiliar face 
On chaste Diana's bathing-place. 
Loud ring the hills about and all 
The shallows are abandoned. . . . 



IV. 



It is the season now to go 
About the country high and low, 
Among the lilacs hand in hand. 
And two by two in fairy land. 

The brooding boy, the sighing maid, 
Wholly fain and half afraid, 
Now meet along the hazel'd brook 
To pass and linger, pause and look. 

A year ago, and blithely paired. 
Their rough-and-tumble play they shared; 
They kissed and quarrelled, laughed and cried, 
A year ago at Eastertide. 

With bursting heart, with fiery face. 
She strove against him in the race; 
He, unabashed, her garter saw, 
That now would touch her skirts with awe. 
260 



IT IS THE SEASON NOIV TO GO. 261 

Now by the stile ablaze she stops, 
And his demurer eyes he drops; 
Now they exchange averted sighs 
Or stand and marry silent eyes. 

And he to her a hero is, 
And sweeter she than primroses; 
Their common silence dearer far 
Than nightingale and mavis are. 

Now when they sever wedded hands, 
Joy trembles in their bosom-strands. 
And lovely laughter leaps and falls 
Upon their lips in madrigals. 



THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 

A naked house, a naked moor, 
A shivering pool before the door, 
A garden bare of flowers and fruit, 
And pophirs at the garden foot: 
Such is the place that I live in, 
Bleak ivithout and bare tvithin. 

Yet shall your ragged moor receive 
The incomparable pomp of eve, 
And the cold glories of the dawn 
Behind your shivering trees be drawn; 
And when the wind from place to place 
Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase, 
Your garden gloom and gleam again. 
With leaping sun, with glancing rain. 
Here shall the wizard moon ascend 
The heavens, in the crimson end 
262 



THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 263 

Of day's declining splendour; here 

The army of the stars appear. 

The neighbour hollows dry or wet, 

Spring shall with tender flowers beset; 

And oft the morning muser see 

Larks rising from the broomy lea, 

And every fairy wheel and thread 

Of cobweb dew-bediamonded. 

When daisies go, shall winter time 

Silver the simple grass with rime; 

Autumnal frosts enchant the pool 

And make the cart-ruts beautiful; 

And when snow-bright the moor expands 

How shall your children clap their hands ! 

To make this earth our hermitage, 

A cheerful and a changeful page, 

God's bright and intricate device 

Of days and seasons doth suffice. 



VI. 

A. VISIT FROM THE SEA. 

Far from the loud sea beaches 
Where he goes fishing and crying, 

Here in the inland garden 
Why is the sea-gull flying? 

Here are no fish to dive for; 

Here is the corn and lea; 
Here are the green trees rustling. 

Hie away home to sea! 

Fresh is the river water 

And quiet among the rushes; * 
This is no home for the sea-gull 

But for the rooks and thrushes. 

Pity the bird that has wandered! 
Pity the sailor ashore! 
264 



A VISIT FROM THE SEA. 20,1 

Hurry him home to the ocean, 
Let him come here no more. 

High on the sea-cliff ledges 

The white gulls are trooping and crying, 
Here among rooks and roses, 

Why is the sea-gull flying? 



VII. 

TO A GARDENER. 

Friend, in my mountain-side demesne, 
My plain-beholding, rosy, green 
And linnet-haunted garden-ground. 
Let still the esculents abound. 
Let first the onion flourish there. 
Rose among roots, the maiden-fair, 
Wine-scented and poetic soul 
Of the capacious salad bowl. 
Let thyme the mountaineer (to dress 
The tinier birds) and wading cress, 
The lover of the shallow brook. 
From all my plots and borders look. 
Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor 
Pease-cods for the child's pinafore 
Be lacking; nor of salad clan 
The last and least that ever ran 
About great nature's garden-beds. 
Nor thence be missed the speary heads 
2GG 




The Gardener. 



TO A GARDENER. 267 

Of artichoke: nor thence the bean 
That, gathered innocent and green, 
Outsavours the belauded pea. 

These tend, I prithee; and for me. 
Thy most long-suffering master, bring 
In April, when the linnets sing 
And the days lengthen more and more 
At sundown to the garden door. 
And I, being provided thus. 
Shall, with -superb asparagus, 
A book, a taper, and a cup 
Of country wine, divinely sup. 

La Solitude, Ilyeres. 



VIII. 
TO MINNIE. 

(With a Hand-Glass.) 
A PICTURE-FRAME for yOU tO fill, 

A paltry setting for your facC; 
A thing that has no worth until 

You lend it something of your grace, 

I send (unhappy I that sing 

Laid by a while upon the shelf) 

Because I would not send a thing 
Less charming than you are yourself. 

And happier than I, alas ! 

(Dumb thing, I envy its delight), 
'Twill wish you well, the looking-glass, 

And look you in the face to-night. 
i86g. 



26b 



IX. 

TO K. DE M. 

A LOVER of the moorland bare 

And honest country winds, you were; 

The silver-skimming rain you took; 

And lo\ed the floodings of the brook, 

Dew, frost, and mountains, fire and seas. 

Tumultuary silences. 

Winds that in darkness fifed a tune, 

And the high-riding, virgin moon. 

And as the berry, pale and sharp, 
Springs on some ditch's counterscarp 
In our ungenial, native north — 
You put your frosted wildings forth, 
And on the heath, afar from man, 
A strong and bitter virgin ran. 

The berry ripened keeps the rude 
And racy flavour of the wood; 
209 



270 TO K. DE M. 

And you that loved the empty plain 
All redolent of wind and rain, 
Around you still the. curlew sings — 
The freshness of the weather clings — 
The maiden jewels of the rain 
Sit in your dabbled locks again. 



X. 

TO N. V. DE G. S. 

The unfathomable sea, and time, and tears, 
The deeds of heroes and the crimes of kings 
Dispart us; and the river of events 
Has, for an age of years, to east and west 
More widely borne our cradles. Thou to me 
Art foreign, as when seamen at the dawn 
Descry a land far off and know not which. 
So I approach uncertain; so I cruise 
Round thy mysterious islet, and behold 
Surf and great mountains and loud river-bars, 
And from the shore hear inland voices call. 
Strange is the seaman's heart; he hopes, he 

fears; 
Draws closer and sweeps wider from that coast; 
Last, his rent sail refits, and to the deep 
His shattered prow uncomforted puts back. 
Yet as he goes he ponders at the helm 
Of that bright island; where he feared to touch, 
271 



272 TO N. V. DE G. 5. 

His spirit re-adventures; and for years, 
Where by his wife he slumbers safe at home, 
Thoughts of that land revisit him; he sees 
The eternal mountains beckon, and awakes 
Yearning for that far home that might have 
been. 



XI. 

TO WILL. H. LOW. 

Youth now flees on feathered foot 
Faint and fainter sounds the flute, 
Rarer songs of gods; and still 
Somewhere on the sunny hill, 
Or along the winding stream. 
Through the willows, flits a dream; 
Flits, but shows a smiling face. 
Flees, but with so quaint a grace. 
None can choose to stay at home. 
All must follow, all must roam. 
This is unborn beauty: she 
Now in air floats high and free. 
Takes the sun and breaks the blue;' 
Late with stooping pinion flew 
Raking hedgerow trees, and wet 
Her wing in silver streams, and set 
Shining foot on temple roof: 
Now again she flies aloof, 
273 



274 TO IVILL H. LOIV. 

Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't 
By the evening's amethyst. 

In wet wood and miry lane, 
Still we pant and pound in vain; 
Still with leaden foot we chase 
Waning pinion, fainting face; 
Still with gray hair we stumble on, 
Till, behold, the vision gone ! 
Where hath fleeting beauty led? 
To the doorway of the dead. 
Life is over, life was gay: 
We have come the primrose way. 



XIL 

TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW. 

Even in the bluest noonday of July, 

There could not run the smallest breath of 

wind 
But all the quarter sounded like a wood; 
And in the checkered silence and above 
The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois, 
Suburban ashes shivered into song. 
A patter and a chatter and a chirp 
And a long-dying hiss — it was as though 
Starched old brocaded dames through all the 

house 
Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky 
Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain. 
Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks 
Of the near autumn, how the smitten ash 
Trembles and augurs floods ! O not too long 
In these inconstant latitudes delay, 
275 



276 TO MRS. IVILL H. LOIV 

O not too late from the unbeloved north 
Trim your escape ! For soon shall this low 

roof 
Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your 

eyes 
Search the foul garden, search the darkened 

rooms, 
Nor find one jewel but the blazing log. 

12 Rue Vernier. Paris. 



XIII. 
TO H. F. BROWN. 

(Written during a Dangerous Sickness.) 

I SIT and wait a pair of oars 
On cis-Elysian river-shores. 
Where the immortal dead have sate, 
'Tis mine to sit and meditate; 
To re-ascend life's rivulet, 
Without remorse, without regret; 
And sing my Alma Genetrix 
Among the willows of the Styx. 

And lo, as my serener soul 
Did these unhappy shores patrol, 
And wait with an attentive ear 
The coming of the gondolier. 
Your fire-surviving roll I took. 
Your spirited and happy book;* 

* " Life on the Lagoons," by H. F. Brown, originally burned 
in the fire at Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.'s. 

277 



278 TO H. F. BROJVN. 

Whereon, despite my frowning fate, 
It did my soul so recreate 
That all my fancies fled away 
On a Venetian holiday. 

Now, thanks to your triumphant care, 

Your pages clear as April air, 

The sails, the bells, the birds, I know, 

And the far-off Friulan snow; 

The land and sea, the sun and shade, 

And the blue even, lamp-inlaid. 

For this, for these, for all, O friend, 

For your whole book from end to end- 

For Paron Picro's muttonham — 

I your defaulting debtor am. 

Perchance, reviving, yet may I 
To your sea-paven city hie. 
And in a felze, some day yet 
Light at your pipe my cigarette. 



XIV. 

TO ANDREW LANG. 

Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair, 
Who glory to have thrown in air. 
High over arm, the trembling reed. 
By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed; 
An equal craft of hand you show 
The pen to guide, the fiy to throw: 
I count you happy starred; for God, 
When He with inkpot and with rod 
Endowed you, bade your fortune lead 
Forever by the crooks of Tweed, 
Forever by the woods of song 
And lands that to the Muse belong; 
Or if in peopled streets, or in 
The abhorred pedantic sanhedrim. 
It should be yours to wander, still 
Airs of the morn, airs of the hill, 
The plovery Forest and the seas 
That break about the Hebrides, 
279 



280 TO ANDREIV LANG. 

Should follow over field and plain 

And find you at the window-pane; 

And you again see hill and peel, 

And the bright springs gush at your heel. 

So went the fiat forth, and so 

Garrulous like a brook you go. 

With sound of happy mirth and sheen 

Of daylight — whether by the green 

You fare that moment, or the gray; 

Whether you dwell in March or May; 

Or whether treat of reels and rods 

Or of the old unhappy gods: 

Still like a brook your page has shone, 

And your ink sings of Helicon. 



XV. 
ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI. 

(TO R. A, M. S.) 

In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt; 
There, from of old, thy childhood passed ; and 

there 
High expectation, high delights and deeds, 
Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror 

moved. ■ 
And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast, 
And Roland's horn, and that war-scattering 

shout 
Of all-unarmed Achilles, segis-crowned. 
And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding 

shores 
And seas and forests drear, island and dale 
And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram 

rod'st 
Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse 
281 



282 ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI. 

Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat 
Side-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by 

night, 
An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upbore 
Beyond the Aral mount; or hoping gain, 
Thou, with a jar of money didst embark 
For Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou 
In that clear air took'st life; in Arcady 
The haunted, land of song; and by the wells 
Where most the gods frequent. There Chiron 

old. 
In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore: 
The plants, he taught, and by the shining stars 
In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen 
Immortal Pan dance secret in a glade, 
And, dancing, roll his eyes; these where they 

fell. 
Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks 
A flying horror winged; while all the earth 
To the god's pregnant footing thrilled within. 
Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he 

breathed. 
In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard 

strains 



ET TU IN ARCADIA VI X 1ST I. 283 

Divine yet brutal; which the forest heard, 
And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain 
The unthinking ploughman started and gave 

ear. 
Now things there are that, upon him who sees, 
A strong vocation lay; and strains there are 
That whoso hears shall hear for evermore. 
For evermore thou hear'st a mortal Pan 
And those melodious godheads, ever young 
And ever quiring on the mountains old. 

What was this earth, child of the gods, to 

thee? 
Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer 

cam'st 
And in thine ears the olden music rang. 
And in thy mind the doings of the dead, 
And those heroic ages long forgot. 
To a so fallen earth, alas! too late, 
Alas ! in evil days, thy steps return. 
To list at noon for nightingales, to grow 
A dweller on the beach till Argo come 
That came long since, a lingerer by the pool 
Where that desired angel bathes no more. 



284 ET TU IN /I RCA DM ^IXISTI. 

As when the Indian to Dakota comes 
Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt, 
He with his clan, a humming city finds; 
Thereon a while, amazed, he stares, and then 
To right and leftward, like a questing dog, 
Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth 
Long cold with rains, and where old terror 

lodged. 
And where the dead. So thee undying Hope, 
With all her pack, hunts screaming through the 

years : 
Here, there, thou fleest; but nor here nor there 
The pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells. 

That, that was not Apollo, not the god. 
This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed 
A moment. And though fair yon river move, 
She, all the way from disenchanted fount 
To seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook 
Long since her trembling rushes; from her 

plains 
Disconsolate, long since adventure fled; 
And now although the inviting river flows 
And every poplared cape and every bend 



ET TU IN ARCADIA yiXISTI. 285 

Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul 
And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed; 
Vet hope not thou at all; hope is no more; 
And O, long since the golden groves are dead 
The faery cities vanished from the land! 



XVI. 

TO W. E. HENLEY. 

The year runs through her phases; rain and 

sun 
Springtime and summer pass; winter succeeds; 
But one pale season rules the house of death. 
Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease 
By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep 
Toss gaping on the pillows. 

But O thou! 
Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow, 
Strains by good thoughts attended, like the 

spring 
The swallows follow over land and sea. 
Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes, 
Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees 
His flock come bleating home; the seaman 

hears 
Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home ! 
286 



TO IV. E. HENLEY. 287 

Youth, love, and roses blossom ; the gaunt ward 
Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, 
Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond 
Of mountains. 

Small the pipe; but oh! do thou. 
Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein 
The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick. 
These dying, sound the triumph over death. 
Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a 

joy 
Unknown before, in dying; for each knows 
A hero dies with him — though unfulfilled, 
Yet conquering truly — and not dies in vain. 

So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house 
Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again — 
O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard 
[Vnd the deliverer, touch the stops again! 



XVII. 

HENRY JAMES. 

Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in 

vain. 
Who comes? My bursting walls, can you con- 
tain 
The presences that now together throng 
Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song, 
As with the air of life, the breath of talk? 
Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk 
Behind their jocund maker; and we see 
Slighted De Maurcs, and that far different she, 
Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast 
Daisy and Ba^-b and Chancellor (she not least !) 
With all their silken, all their airy kin. 
Do like unbidden angels enter in. 
But he, attended by these shining names, 
Comes (best of all) himself — our welcome 
James. 



XVIII. 

THE MIRROR SPEAKS, 

Where the bells peal far at sea 
Cunning fingers fashioned me. 
There on palace walls I hung 
While that Consuelo sung; 
But I heard, though I listened well, 
Never a note, never a trill, 
Never a beat of the chiming bell. 
There I hung and looked, and there 
In my gray face, faces fair 
Shone from under shining hair. 
Well I saw the poising head. 
But the lips moved and nothing said 
And- when lights were in the hall. 
Silent moved the dancers all. 

So a while I glowed, and then 
Fell on dusty days and men; 
289 



290 THE MIRROR SPEAKS. 

Long I slumbered packed in straw, 
Long I none but dealers saw; 
Till before my silent eye 
One that sees came passing by. 

Now with an outlandish grace, 
To the sparkling fire I face 
In the blue room at Skerry vore; 
Where I wait until the door 
Open, and the Prince of Men, 
Henry James, shall come again. 



XIX. 

KATHARINE. 

We see you as we see a face 
That trembles in a forest place 
Upon the mirror of a pool 
Forever quiet, clear, and cool; 
And in the wayward glass appears 
To hover between smiles and tears, 
Elfin and human, airy and true, 
And backed by the reflected blue. 



291 



XX'. 

TO F. J. S. 

I READ, dear friend, in your dear face 
Your life's tale told with perfect grace; 
The river of your life I trace 
Up the sun-checkered, devious bed 
To the far-distant fountain-head. 

Not one quick beat of your warm heart, 
Nor thought that came to you apart, 
Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain 
Nor sorrow, has gone by in vain; 
But as some lone, wood-wandering child 
Brings home with him at evening mild 
The thorns and flowers of all the wild, 
From your whole life, O fair and true 
Your flowers and thorns you bring with you! 



292 



XXI. 

REQUIEM. 

Under the wide and starry sky, 
Dig the grave and let me lie. 
Glad did I live and gladly die, 
And I laid me down with a will. 

This be the verse you grave for me : 
Here he lies where he longed to be ; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill. 



293 



XXII. 

THE CELESTIAL SURGEON. 

If I have faltered more or less 
In my great task of happiness; 
If I have moved among my race 
And shown no glorious morning face; 
If beams from happy human eyes 
Have moved me not; if morning skies, 
Books, and my food, and summer rain 
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain : — 
Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take 
And stab my spirit broad awake; 
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, 
Choose thou, before that spirit die, 
A piercing pain, a killing sin. 
And to my dead heart run them in! 



294 



XXIII. 

OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS. 

Out of the sun, out of the blast, 
Out of the world, alone I passed 
Across the moor and through the wood 
To where the monastery stood. 
There neither lute nor breathing fife, 
Nor rumour of the world of life, 
Nor confidences low and dear, 
Shall strike the meditative ear. 
iMoof, unhelpful, and unkind, 
The prisoners of the iron mind. 
Where nothing speaks except the hell, 
The unfraternal brothers dwell. 

Poor, passionate men, still clothed afresh 
With agonizing folds of flesh; 
Whom the clear eyes solicit still 
To some bold output of the will, 
While fairy Fancy far before 
295 



296 OUR LADY OF THE SNOIVS. 

And musing Memory-Hold-the-door 
Now to heroic death invite 
And now uncurtain fresh delight: 
O, little boots it thus to dwell 
On the remote unneighboured hill! 

O, to be up and doing, O 
Unfearing and unshamed to go 
In all the uproar and the press 
About my human business ! 
My undissuaded heart I hear 
Whisper courage in my ear. 
With voiceless calls, the ancient earth 
Summons me to a daily birth. 
Thou, O my love, ye, O my friends — 
The gist of life, the end of ends — 
To laugh, to love, to live, to die, 
Ye call me by the ear and eye! 

Forth from the casemate, on the plain 
Where honour has the world to gain, 
Pour forth and bravely do your part, 
O knights of the unshielded heart! 
Forth and forever forward ! — out 



OUR LADY OF THE SNOIVS. 297 

From prudent turret and redoubt, 
And in the mellay charge amain, 
To fall, but yet to rise again ! 
Captive? ah, still, to honour bright, 
A captive soldier of the right! 
Or free and fighting, good with ill? 
Unconquering but unconquered still ! 

And ye, O brethren, what if God, 
When from heav'n's top He spies abroad, 
And sees on this tormented stage 
The noble war of mankind rage: 
What if His vivifying eye, 
O monks, should pass your corner by? 
For still the Lord is Lord of might; 
In deeds, in deeds. He takes delight; 
The plow, the spear, the laden barks. 
The field, the founded city, marks; 
He marks the smiler of the streets. 
The singer upon garden seats; 
He sees the climber in the rocks: 
To Him the shepherd folds his flocks. 
For those He loves that underprop 
With daily virtues heaven's top, 



298 OUR LADY OF THE SNOIVS. 

And bear the falling sky with ease, 
Unfrowning caryatides. 

Those he approves that ply the trade, 
That rock the child, that wed the maid. 
That with weak virtues, weaker hands, 
Sow gladness on the peopled lands. 
And still with laughter, song and shout, 
Spin the great wheel of earth about. 

But ye? — O ye who linger still. 
Here in your fortress on the hill. 
With placid face, with tranquil breath. 
The unsought volunteers of death, 
Our cheerful General on high 
With careless looks may pass you by. 



XXIV. 

Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert, 
Where thou with grass, and rivers, and the 

breeze, 
And the bright face of day, thy dalliance 

hadst; 
Where to thine ear first sang the enraptured 

birds; 
Where love and thou that lasting bargain made. 
The ship rides trimmed, and from the eternal 

shore 
Thou hearest airy voices; but not yet 
Depart, my soul, not yet a while depart. 
Freedom is far, rest far. Thou art with life 
Too closely woven, nerve with nerve entwined; 
Service still craving service, love for love. 
Love for dear love, still suppliant with tears. 
x'Mas, not yet thy human task is done ! 
A bond at birth is forged; a debt doth lie 
299 



oOO NOT YET, MY SOUL. 

Immortal on mortality. It grows — 
By vast rebound it grows, unceasing growth; 
Gift upon gift, alms upon alms, upreared, 
From man, from God, from nature, till the 

soul 
At that so huge indulgence stands amazed. 

Leave not, my soul, the unfoughten field, nor 

leave 
Thy debts dishonoured, nor thy place desert 
Without due service rendered. For thy life, 
Up, spirit, and defend that fort of clay. 
Thy body, now beleaguered; whether soon 
Or late she fall; whether to-day thy friends. 
Bewail thee dead, or, after years, a man 
Grown old in honour and the friend of peace. 
Contend, my soul, for moments and for hours; 
Each is with service pregnant; each reclaimed 
Is as a kingdom conquered, where to reign. 
As when a captain rallies to the fight 
His scattered legions, and beats ruin back. 
He, on the field, encamps, well pleased in 

mind. 
Yet surely him shall fortune overtake, 



NOT YET, MY SOUL 301 

Him smite in turn, headlong his ensigns drive; 
And that dear land, now safe, to-morrow fall. 
But he, unthinking, in the present good 
Solely delights, and all the camps rejoice. 



XXV. 

It is not yours, O mother, to complain, 
Not, mother, yours to weep. 
Though nevermore your son again 
Shall to your bosom creep. 
Though nevermore again you watch your baby 
sleep. 

Though in the greener paths of earth, 
Mother and child no more 
We wander; and no more the birth 
Of me whom once you bore 
Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed 
of yore; 

Though as all passes, day and night, 
The seasons and the years. 
From you, O mother, this delight. 
This also disappears — 

Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and 
tears. 

302 



IT IS NOT YOURS, O MOTHER. 303 

The child, the seed, the grain of corn, 
The acorn on the hill, 
Each for some separate end is born 
In season fit, and still 

Each must in strength arise to work the 
almighty will. 

So from the hearth the children flee, 
By that almighty hand 
Austerely led; so one by sea 
Goes forth, and one by land; 
Nor aught of all man's sons escape from that 
command. 

So from the sally each obeys 
The unseen almighty nod; 
So till the ending all their ways 
Blindfolded loath have trod: 
Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools 
of God. 

And as the fervent smith of yore 
Beat out the glowing blade. 
Nor wielded in the front of war 



304 IT IS NOT YOURS, O MOTHER. 

The weapons that he made, 
But in the tower at home still plied his ringing 
trade ; 

So like a sword the son shall roam 
On nobler missions sent; 
And as the smith remained at home 
In peaceful turret pent, 

So sits the while at home the mother well 
content. 



XXVI. 

THE SICK CHILD. 
Child — 
O MOTHER, lay your hand on my brow! 

mother, mother, where am I now? 
Why is the room so gaunt and great? 
Why am I lying awake so late? 

Mother — 

Fear not at all: the night is still; 
Nothing is here that means you ill — 
Nothing but lamps the whole town through, 
And never a child awake but you. 

Child — 
Mother, mother, speak low in my ear, 
Some of the things are so great and near. 
Some are so small and far away, 

1 have a fear that I cannot say. 

What have I done, and what do I fear. 
And why are you crying, mother dear? 
305 



306 THE SICK CHILD 

Mother — 

Out in the city, sounds begin; 
Thank the kind God, the carts come in! 
An hour or two more, and God is so kind, 
The day shall be blue in the window-blind, 
Then shall my child go sweetly asleep. 
And dream of the birds and the hills of 
sheep. 



XXVII. 
IN MEMORIAM F. A. S. 

Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember 
How of human days he lived the better part. 

April came to bloom and never dim December 
Breathed its killing chills upon the head or 
heart. 

Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a 
being 
Trod the flowery April blithely for a while. 
Took his fill of music, joy of thought and 
seeing, 
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased 
to smile. 

Came and stayed and went, and now when all 
is finished, 
You alone have crossed the melancholy 
stream, 

307 



308 IN MEMORIAM F. A. S. 

Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undi- 
minished 
Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. 

All that life contains of torture, toil, and 
treason. 
Shame, dishonour, death, to him were but a 
name. 
Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing 
season 
And ere the day of sorrow departed as he 
came. 

Davos, 1881. 



XXVIII. 

TO MY FATHER. 

Peace and her huge invasion to these shores 

Puts daily home; innumerable sails 

Dawn on the far horizon and draw near; 

Innumerable loves, uncounted hopes 

To our wild coasts, not darkling now, approach : 

Not now obscure, since thou and thine are 

there, 
And bright on the lone isle, the foundered reef. 
The long, resounding foreland, Pharos stands. 

These are thy works, O father, these thy 

crown ; 
Whether on high the air be pure, they shine 
Along the yellowing sunset, and all night 
Among the unnumbered stars of God they shine; 
Or whether fogs arise and far and wide 
The low sea-level drown — each finds a tongue 
And all night long the tolling bell resounds: 
309 



310 TO MY FATHER. 

So shine, so toll, till night be overpast, 
Till the stars vanish, till the sun return. 
And in the haven rides the fleet secure. 

In the first hour, the seaman in his skiff 
Moves through the unmoving bay, to where the 

town 
Its earliest smoke into the air upbreathes 
And the rough hazels climb along the beach. 
To the tugg'd oar the distant echo speaks. 
The ship lies resting, where by reef and roost 
Thou and thy lights have led her like a child. 

This hast thou done, and I — can I be base? 

I must arise, O father, and to port 

Some lost, complaining seaman pilot home. 



XXIX. 
IN THE STATES. 

With half a heart I wander here 

As from an age gone by 
A brother — yet though young in years, 

An elder brother, I. 

You speak another tongue than mine. 
Though both were English born. 

I toward the night of time decline, 
You mount into the morn. 

Youth shall grow great and strong and freC; 

But age must still decay : 
To-morrow for the States — for me, 

England and Yesterday. 

San Francisco. 



311 



XXX. 
A PORTRAIT. 

I AM a kind of farthing dip, 

Unfriendly to the nose and eyes; . 

A blue-behinded ape, I skip 
Upon the trees of Paradise. 

At mankind's feast, I take my place 
In solemn, sanctimonious state. 

And have the air of saying grace 
While I defile the dinner-plate. 

I am "the smiler with the knife," 
The battener upon garbage, I — 

Dear Heaven, with such a rancid life, 
Were it not better far to die? 

Yet still, about the human pale, 
I love to scamper, love to race. 

To swing by my irreverent tail 
All over the most holy place; 
312 



A PORTRAIT. 313 

And when at length, some golden day, 
The unfailing sportsman, aiming at, 

Shall bag, me — all the world shall say, 
Thank God, and there 's an end of that ! 



XXXI. 

Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still, 
Sing truer or no longer sing! 
No more the voice of melancholy Jacques 
To wake a weeping echo in the hill; 
But as the boy, the pirate of the spring. 
From the green elm a living linnet takes. 
One natural verse recapture — then be still. 



314 



XXXII. 

A CAMP.i 

The bed was made, the room was fit, 
By punctual eve the stars were lit; 
The air was still, the water ran. 
No need was there for maid or man. 
When we put up, my ass and I, 
At God's green caravanserai. 

1 From " Travels with a Donkey." 



315 



XXXIII. 

THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS.^ 

We travelled in the print of olden wars, 
Yet all the land was green 
And love we found, and peace, 
Where fire and war had been. 

They pass and smile, the children of the sword — 
No more the sword they wield; 
And O, how deep the corn 
Along the battlefield! 

1 From " Travels with a Donkey." 



316 



XXXIV. 

SKERRYVORE. 

For love of lovely words and for the sake 
Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen, 
Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled 
To plant a star for seamen, where was then 
The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants: 
I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe 
The name of a strong tower. 



317 



XXXV. 

SKERRYVORE: The Parallel. 

Here all is sunny, and when the truant gull 
Skims the green level of the lawn, his wing 
Dispetals roses; here the house is framed 
Of kneaded brick and the plumed mountain 

pine. 
Such clay as artists fashion and such wood 
As the tree-climbing urchin breaks. But there 
Eternal granite hewn from the living isle 
And dowelled with brute iron, rears a tower 
That from its wet foundation to its crown 
Of glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of 

winds, 
Immovable, immortal, eminent. 



318 



XXXVI. 

My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves 
That make my roof the arena of their loves, 
That gyre about the gable all day long 
And fill the chimneys with their murmurous 

song: 
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat de- 
clares 
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; 
And 7nine, the dog, and rises stiff with wrath 
If any alien foot profane the path. 
So too the buck that trimmed my terraces, 
Our whilome gardener, called the garden his ; 
Who now, deposed, surveys my plam abode 
And his late kingdom, only from the road. 



319 



XXXVII. 

My body, which my dungeon is, 
And yet my parks and palaces: — 

Which is so great that there I go 
All the day long to and fro, 
And when the night begins to fall 
Throw down my bed and sleep, while all 
The building hums with wakefulness — 
Even as a child of savages 
When evening takes her on her way 
(She having roamed a summer's day 
Along the mountain-sides and scalp). 
Sleeps in an antre of that alp : — 

Which is so broad and high that there, 
As in the topless fields of air, 
My fancy soars like to a kite 
And faints in the blue infinite: — 

Which is so strong, my strongest throes 
And the rough world's besieging blows 
Not break it, and so weak withal. 
Death ebbs and flows in its loose wall 
320 



MY BODY, IVHICH MY DUNGEON IS. 321 

As the green sea in fishers' nets, 
And tops its topmost parapets: — 
Which is so wholly mine that I 
Can wield its whole artillery, 
And mine so little, that my soul 
Dwells in perpetual control, 
And I but think and speak and do 
As my dead fathers move me to: — 

If this born body of my bones 
The beggared soul so barely owns, 
What money passed from hand to hand, 
What creeping custom of the land, 
What deed of author or assign, 
Can make a house a thing of mine? 



XXXVIII. 

Say not of me that weakly I declined 
The labours of my sires, and fled the sea, 
The towers we founded and the lamps we lit, 
To play at home with paper like a child. 
But rather say : In the afternoon of time 
A strenuous family dusted from its hands 
The sand of granite, and beholding far 
Along the sounding coast its pyramids 
And tall memorials catch the dying sun, 
Smiled well content, and to this childish task 
Around the fire addressed its evening hours. 



322 



BOOK II.— IN SCOTS. 

TABLE OF COMMON SCOTTISH VOWEL SOUNDS. 

ae 1 

. V = open A, as in rare. 



} 



au }► = AW, as in law. 

aw. 

ca = open e, as in mere, but this with exceptions, as 
heather = heather, wean = wain, lear = lair. 

ee 1 

ei V = open e, as in mere. 

ie J 

oa = open o, as in more. 

ou = doubled o, as in poor. 

ow = o\v, as in bower. 

u = doubled O, as in poor. 

ui or ii before R = (say roughly) open A, as in rare. 

ui or ii before any other consonant = (say roughly) close i, 
as in grin. 

y = open i, as in kite. 

i = pretty nearly what you please, much as in English. 
Heaven guide the reader through that labyrinth I 
But in Scots it dodges usually from the short i, as 
in grin, to the open E, as in mere. Find and 
blind, I may remark, are pronounced to rhyme 
with the preterite of grin. 



323 



THE MAKER TO POSTERITY. 

Far 'yont amang the years to be, 
When a' we think, an' a' we see, 
An' a' we luve, 's been dung ajee 

By time's rouch shouther, 
An' what was richt and wrang for 

Lies mangled throu'ther, 

It's possible — it's hardly mair — 
That some ane, ripin' after lear — 
Some auld professor or young heir, 

If still there's either — 
May find an' read me, an' be sair 

Perplexed, puir brither! 

''W/ia/ tongue does your auld bookie speak ?^^ 
He'll spier; an' I, his mou to steik: 
" No beiti' fit to write i?i Greeks 
I wrote in Lallan, 
324 



THE MAKER TO POSTERITY. 32i 

Dear to my heart as the peat reeky 
Auld as Tantallon. 



^^ Few spak it than, an' noo there's nane. 
My ptiir auld sangs lie a' their latie, 
Their sense, that aince was draw an* plain, 

Tint a'thegether, 
Like runes upon a standin' stane 

Amang the heather. 

" But think not you the brae to spcel ; 
You, tae, maim chow the bitter peel ; 
For a' your tear, for a' your skeel. 

Ye 're nane sae lucky ; 
An' things are mebbe waur than we el 

For you, my buckie. 

" The hale concern {baith hens an' eggs, 
Baith books an' writers, stars an' clegs) 
Noo stackers upon lowsent legs 

An' wears aw a' ; 
The tack o' ?nankind, near the dregs, 

Rins unco law. 



326 THE MAKER TO POSTERITY. 

" Your book, that in some braiv new tongue^ 
Ye wrote or prentit, preached or sung, 
Will still be just a bairn, an'' young 

In fame an' years, 
Whan the hale planet's guts are dung 

About your ears ; 

" An^ you, sair gruppin' to a spar 
Or whammled wV some bleezin' star, 
Cryin' tae ken whaur deil ye are, 

Hame, France, or Flanders — 
Whang sindry like a railway car 

An' flie iti danders." 



II. 

ILLE TERRARUM. 

Frae nirly, nippin', Eas'lan' breeze, 
Frae Norlan' snaw, an' haar o' seas, 
Weel happit in your gairden trees, 

A bonny bit, 
Atween the muckle Pentland's knees, 

Secure ye sit. 

Beeches an' aiks entwine their theek. 
An' firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique. 
A' simmer day, your chimleys reek, 

Couthy and bien; 
An' here an' there your windies keek 

Amang the green. 

A pickle plats an' paths an' posies, 
A wheen auld gillyflowers an' roses ; 
A ring o' wa's the hale encloses 
Frae sheep or men; 
327 



328 ILLE TERRARUM. 

An' there the auld housie beeks an' dozes 
A' by her lane. 

The gairdner crooks his weary back 

A' day in the pitaty-track, 

Or mebbe stops a while to crack 

Wi' Jane the cook, 
Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black, 

To gie a look. 

Frae the high hills the curlew ca's; 
The sheep gang baaing by the wa's; 
Or whiles a clan o' roosty craws 

Cangle together; 
The wild bees seek the gairden raws, 

Weariet wi' heather. 

Or in the gloamin' douce an' gray 
The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay; 
The herd comes linkin' doun the brae; 

An' by degrees 
The muckle siller miine maks way 

Amang the trees. 



ILLE TERRARUM. 329 

Here aft hae I, wi' sober heart, 
For meditation sat apairt, 
When orra loves or kittle art 

Perplexed my mind; 
Here socht a balm for ilka smart 

O' humankind. 



Here aft, weel neukit by my lane, 
Wi' Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, 
The mornin' hours hae come an' gane 

Abiine my heid^— 
I wadnae gi'en a chucky-stane 

For a' I'd read. 

But noo the auld city, street by street, 
An' winter fu' o' snaw an' sleet, 
A while shut in my gangrel feet 

An' goavin' mettle; 
Noo is the soopit ingle sweet. 

An' liltin' kettle. 

An' noo the winter winds complain; 
Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane; 



330 ILLE TERRARUM. 

On draigled hizzie, tautit wean, 

An' drucken lads, 
In the mirk nicht, the winter rain 

Dribbles an' blads. 

Whan bugles frae the Castle rock, 
An' beaten drums, wi' dowie shock, 
Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o'clock. 

My chitterin' frame, 
I mind me on the kintry cock, 

The kintry hame. 

I mind me on yon bonny bield; 
An' Fancy traivels far afield 
To gaither a' that gairdens yield 

O' sun an' Simmer: 
To hearten up a dowie chield. 

Fancy 's the limmer! 



III. 



When aince Aprile has fairly come, 
An' birds may bigg in winter's lum, 
An' pleisure's spreid for a' and some 

O' whatna state, 
Love, wi' her auld recruitin' drum. 

Than taks the gate. 

The heart plays dunt wi' main an' micht; 
The lasses' een are a' sae bricht, 
Their dresses are sae braw an' ticht. 

The bonny birdies! — 
Puir winter virtue at the sicht 

Gangs heels ower hurdles. 

An' aye as love frae land to land 
Tirls the drum wi' tident hand, 
A' men collect at her command 

Toun-bred or land'art, 
An' follow in a denty band 

Her gaucy standart. 
331 



332 AINCE APRILE HAS FAIRLY COME. 

An' I, wha sang o' rain an' snaw, 
An' weary winter weel awa', 
Noo busk me in a jacket braw, 

An' tak my place 
r the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw 

Wi' smilin' face. 



IV. 

A MILE AN' A BITTOCK. 

A MILE an' a bittock, a mile or twa, 
Abiine the burn, ayont the law, 
Davie an' Donal' an' Cherlie an' a', 
An' the miine was shinin' clearly! 

Ane went hame wi' the ither, an' then 
The ither went hame wi' the ither twa men, 
An' baith wad return him the service again, 
An' the miine was shinin' clearly ! 

The clocks were chappin' in house an' ha', 
Eleeven, twal, an' ane an' twa; 
i\n' the guidman's face was turnt to the wa' 
An' the miine was shinin' clearly ! 

A wind got up frae affa the sea, 
It blew the stars as dear's could be, 
333 



334 A MILE AN' A BITTOCK. 

It blew in the een of a' o' the three,. 
An' the mline was shinin' clearly! 

Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head, 
"The best o' frien's maun twine," he said; 
"I'm weariet, an' here I'm awa' to my bed." 
An' the mline was shinin' clearly! 

Twa o' them walkin' an' crackin' their lane, 
The mornin' licht cam gray an' plain, 
An' the birds they yammert on stick an' stane, 
An' the mline was shinin' clearly! 

O years ayont, O years awa', 
My lads, ye '11 mind whate'er befa' — 
My lads, ye '11 mind on the bield o' the law, 
When the mune was shinin' clearly. 




A Lawden Sabbath Mc 



A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN. 

The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells 
Noo to the hoastin' rookery swells, 
Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells, 

Sounds far an' near, 
An' through the simmer kintry tells 

Its tale o' cheer. 

An' noo, to that melodious play, 
A' deidly awn the quiet sway — 
A' ken their sol"emn holiday, 

Bestial an' human. 
The singin' lintie on the brae, 

The restin' plou'man. 

He, mair than a' the lave o' men. 
His week completit joys to ken; 
Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in, 
Perplext wi' leisure; 
335 



336 A LOU/DEN SABBATH MORN. 

Ad' his raxt limbs he'll rax again 
Wi' painfii' pleesure. 



The steerin' mither Strang afit 
Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit; 
Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shuit 

To scart upon them, 
Or sweeties in their pouch to pit, 

Wi' blessin's on them. 

The lasses, clean frae tap to taes. 
Are busked in crunklin' underclaes; 
The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, 

The nakit shift, 
A' bleached on bonny greens for days. 

An' white 's the drift. 

An' noo to face the kirkward mile: 
The guidman's hat o' dacent style. 
The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle 

As white 's the miller: 
A waefli' peety tae, to spile 

The warth o' siller. 



_ A LOW DEN SABBATH MORN. 337 

Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to crack, 
Douce-stappin' in the stoury track, 
Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back 

Frae snawy coats, 
White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack 

Wi' Dauvit Groats. 

A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks 
A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks, 
The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks 

The sonsie missis; 
His sarious face at aince bespeaks 

The day that this is. 

And aye an' while we nearer draw 
To whaur the kirton lies alaw, 
Mair neebors, comin' saft an' slaw 

Frae here an' there, 
The thicker thrang the gate an' caw 

The stour in air. 

But hark! the bells frae nearer clang; 
To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang; 



338 A LOIVDEN SABBATH MORN. 

An' see! black coats a'ready thrang 

The green kirkyaird, 
And at the yett, the chestnuts spang 

That brocht the laird. 

The solemn elders at the plate 

Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state: 

That practised hands as gash an' great 

As Lords o' Session; 
The later named, a wee thing blate 

In their expression. 

The prentit stanes that mark the deid, 
Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read; 
Syne wag a moraleesin' held. 

An' then an' there 
Their hirplin' practice an' their creed 

Try hard to square. 

It's here our Merren lang has lain, 

A wee bewast the table-stane; 

An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Blane; 

An' further ower. 
The mither's brithers, dacent men! 

Lie a' the fower. 



A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN. 339 

Here the guidman sail bide awee 
To dwall amang the deid; to see 
Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e; 

Belike to hear 
Auld voices fa' in' saft an' slee 

On fancy's e?r. 

Thus, on the day o' solemn things, 
The bell that in the steeple swings 
To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings 

Its walcome screed; 
An' just a wee thing nearer brings 

The quick an' deid. 

But noo the bell is ringin' in; 
To tak their places, folk begin; 
The minister himsel' will shiine 

Be up the gate, 
Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin 

An' man's estate. 

The tunes are up — French^ to be shiire, 
The faithfii' French^ an' twa-three mair. 
The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair, 
Wales out the portions, 



340 A LOW DEN SABBATH MORN. 

An' yirks the tiine into the air 
Wi' queer contortions. 



Follows the prayer, the readin' next, 
An' than the fisslin' for the text — 
The twa-three last to find it, vext 

But kind o' proud; 
An' than the peppermints are raxed, 

An' southernwood. 

For noo 's the time whan pows are seen 
Nid-noddin' like a mandareen; 
When tenty mithers stap a preen 

In sleepin' weans; 
An' nearly half the parochine 

Forget their pains. 

There's just a waukrif twa or three: 
Thrawn commentautors sweer to 'gree, 
Weans glowrin' at the bumblin' bee 

On windie-glasses, 
Or lads that tak a keek a-glee 

At sonsie lasses. 



A LOIVDEN SABBATH MORN. 341 

Himsel', meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks 
An' bobs belaw the soundin'-box, 
The treesures of his words unlocks 

Wi' prodigality, 
An' deals some unco dingin' knocks 

To infidality. 

Wi' sappy unction, hoo he burkes 
The hopes o' men that trust in works, 
Expounds the fau'ts o' ither kirks, 

An' shaws the best o' them 
No muckle better than mere Turks, 

When a' 's confessed o' them. 

Bethankit ! what a bonny creed ! 

What mair would ony Christian need? — 

The braw words rumm'le ower his heid. 

Nor steer the sleeper; 
An', in their restin' graves, the deid 

Sleep aye the deeper. 

Note. — It may be guessed by some that I had a certain 
parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add a 
word of disclamation. In my time there have been two 
ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a special 



342 A LOW DEN SABBATH MORN. 

reason to speak well, even had there been any to think 
ill. The second I have often met in private, and long (in 
the due phrase) "sat under" in his church, and neither 
here nor there have I heard an unkind or ugly word upon 
his lips. The preacher of the text had thus no original in 
that particular parish; but when I was a boy, he might 
have been observed in many others; he was then (like the 
schoolmaster) abroad; and, by recent advices, it would 
seem he has not yet entirely disappeared. 



VI. 
THE SPAEWIFE. 

O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife 

says I — 
Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae 

guid to fry. 
An' siller, that's sae braw to keep, is brawer 

still to gi'e. 

— Ifs gey ail' easy spier in\ says the beggar- 

wife to me. 

O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife 

says I — 
Hoo a' things come to be whaur we find them 

when we try, 
The lasses in their claes an' the fishes in the 

sea. 

— It's gey an' easy spierin\ says the beggar- 

wife to me. 

343 



344 THE SPAEH^IFE, 

O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife 

says I — 
Why lads are a' to sell an' lasses a' to buy; 
An' naebody for dacency but barely twa or 

three 

— Jl's gey an' easy spierin\ says the beggar- 

wife to me. 

O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife 

says I — 
Gin death 's as shiire to men as killin' is to kye, 
Why God has filled the yearth sae fu' o' tasty 

things to pree. 

— It's gey an' easy spierin\ say the beggar- 

wife to me. 

O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife 

says I — 
The reason o' the cause an' the wherefore o' 

the why, 
Wi' mony anither riddle brings the tear into 

my e'e. 

— It's gey an' easy spierin' ^ says the beggar- 

wife to me. 



VII. 

THE BLAST— 1875. 

It's rainin'. Weet 's the gairden sod 
Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod 
A maist unceevil thing o' God 

In mid July — 
If ye '11 just curse the sneckdraw, dod! 

An' sae wull I ! 

He 's a braw place in heev'n, ye ken, 
An' lea's us puir, forjaskit men 
Clamjamfried in the but and ben 

He ca's the earth — 
A wee bit inconvenient den 

No muckle worth; 

An' whiles, at orra times, keeks out. 
Sees what puir mankind are about; 
An' if He can, I 've little doubt, 
Upsets their plans; 
345 



346 THE BLAST— 1875- 

He hates a' mankind, brainch and root, 
An' a' that 's man's. 

An' whiles, whan they tak heart again. 
An' life i' the sun looks braw an' plain, 
Doun comes a jaw o' droukin' rain 

Upon their honours — 
God sends a spate outower the plain, 

Or mebbe thun'ers. 

Lord safe us, life 's an unco thing! 
Simmer an' Winter, Yule an' Spring, 
The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring 

A feck o' trouble. 
I wadna try 't to be a king — 

No, nor for double. 

But since we 're in it, willy-nilly. 

We maun be watchfii', wise, an' skilly 

An' no mind ony ither billy. 

Lassie nor God. 
But drink — that's my best counsel till 'e 

Sae tak the nod. 



VIII. 

THE COUNTERBLAST — 1886. 

My bonny man, the warld, it 's true, 
Was made for neither me nor you; 
It 's just a place to warstle through, 

As Job confessed o't; 
And aye the best that we '11 can do 

Is mak the best o't. 

There's rowth o' wrang, I'm free to say 
The simmer brunt, the winter blae, 
The face of earth a' fyled wi' clay 

An' dour wi' chuckies. 
An' life a rough an' land 'art play 

For country buckles. 

An' food 's anither name for clart; 
An' beasts an' brambles bite an' scart; 
An' what would we be like, my heart! 
If bared o' claethin' ? 
347 



348 THE COUNTERBLAST~-i886. 

— Aweel, I cannae mend your cart : 
It 's that or naethin'. 



A feck o' folk frae first to last 

Have through this queer experience passed; 

Tvva-three, I ken, just damn an' blast 

The hale transaction; 
But twa-three ithers, east an' wast, 

Fand satisfaction. 

Whaur braid the briery muirs expand, 

A waefii' an' a weary land, 

The bumblebees, a gowden band. 

Are blithely hingin'; 
An' there the canty wanderer fand 

The laverock singin'. 

Trout in the burn grow great as herr'n'. 
The simple sheep can find their fair'n'; 
The wind blaws clean about the cairn 

Wi' caller air; 
The muircock an' the barefit bairn 

Are happy there. 



THE COUNTERBLAST— i8S6. 349 

Sic-like the howes o' life to some : 

Green loans whaiir they ne'er fash their thumb, 

But mark the muckle winds that come, 

Soopin' an' cool, 
Or hear the powrin' burnie drum 

In the shilfa's pool. 

The evil wi' the guid they tak; 
They ca' a gray thing gray, no black; 
To a steigh brae, a stubborn back 

Addressin' daily; 
An' up the rude, unbieldy track 

O' life, gang gayly. 

What you would like 's a palace ha', 
Or Sinday parlour* dink an' braw 
Wi' a' things ordered in a raw 

By denty leddies. 
Weel, than, ye cannae hae't: that's a' 

That to be said is. 

An' since at life ye 've taen the grue. 
An' winnae blithely hirsle through. 



350 THE COUNTERBLAST— 1886. 

Ye 've fund the very thing to do — 
That 's to drink speerit; 

An' shiine we'll hear the last o' you — 
An' blithe to hear it! 

The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead, 
Ithers will heir when aince ye 're deid; 
They '11 heir your tasteless bite o' breid, 

An' find it sappy; 
They '11 to your dulefii' house succeed, 

An' there be happy. 

As whan a glum an' fractious wean 
Has sat an' sullened by his lane 
Till, wi' a rowstin' skelp, he 's taen 

An' shoo'd to bed — 
The ither bairns a' fa'* to play'n', 

As gleg 's a gled. 



IX. 

THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL. 

It 's strange that God should fash to frame 

The yearth and lift sae hie, 
An' clean forget to explain the same 

To a gentleman like me. 

They gutsy, donnered ither folk, 

Their weird they weel may dree; 

But why present a pig in a poke 
To a gentleman like me? 

They ither folk their parritch eat 

An' sup their sugared tea; 
But the mind is no to be wyled wi' meat 

Wi' a gentleman like me. 

They ither folk, they court their joes 
At gloamin' on the lea; 
351 



352 THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL 

But they 're made of a commoner clay, I 
suppose, 
Than a gentleman like me. 

They ither folk, for richt or wrang, 

They suffer, bleed, or dee; 
But a' thir things are an emp'y sang 

To a gentleman like me. 

It's a different thing that I demand, 

Tho' humble as can be — 
A statement fair in my Maker's hand 

To a gentleman like me: 

A clear account writ fair an' broad. 

An' a plain apologie; 
Or the deevil a ceevil word to God 

From a gentleman like me. 



X. 



THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY 
CLASS DINNER CLUB. 

Dear Thamson class, whaure'er I gang 

It aye comes ower me wi' a spang: 

^^ Lords ake ! they Thamson lads — {deil ha?ig 

Or else Lord inend them / ) — 
An'' that wanchancy annual sang 

I 7ie^er can send them / " 

Straucht, at the name a trusty tyke, 
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke; 
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke 

To find a rhyme t' ye; 
Pleased — although mebbe no pleased-like 

To gie my time t' ye. 

" Weel," an' says you, wi' heavin' breist, 
"^Sae /ar, sae gui'd, but what's the neist ? 
353 



354 TO A DINNER CLUB. 

Yearly lae gaiiher to the feast, 

A'' hopefil'' men — 
Yearly ive skelloch ^ Hang the beast — 

Nae sang again / ' " 

My lads, an' what am I to say? 
Ye shiirely ken the Muse's way: 
Yestreen, as gleg's a tyke — the day, 

Thrawn like a cuddy: 
Her conduc', that to her 's a play, 

Deith to a body. 

Aft whan I sat an' made my mane, 
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane 
Fishin' for rhymes an' findin' nana, 

Or nane were fit for ye — 
Ye judged me cauld's a chucky stane- 

No car'n' a bit for ye! 

But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn 
As weak as a pitaty-par'n' — 
Less iised wi' guidin' horse-shoe airn 
Than steerin' crowdie — 



TO A DINNER CLUB. 355 

Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn, 
To ca' the howdie. 



Wae 's me, for the puir callant than! 
He wambles like a poke o' bran, 
An' the lowse rein, as hard 's he can, 

Pu's, trem'lin' hand it; 
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan' 

Behauld him landit. 

Sic-like — I awn the weary fac' — 
Whan on my muse the gate I tak. 
An' see her gleed e'e raxin' back 

To keek ahint her; — 
To me the brig of heev'n gangs black 

As blackest winter. 

" Lordsake / ive'j-eaff,'' thinks I, ^^butwhaur? 
Ofi ivhat abhorred and zvJiinny scaur, 
Or whammled in ivhat sea o' glaur, 

Wi/i she desert me? 
An^ will she Just disgrace? or waur — 

Will she no hurt me ?^^ 



356 TO A DINNER CLUB. 

Kittle the quaere! But at least 

The day I 've backed the fashious beast, 

While she, wi' mony a spang an' reist, 

Flang heels ower bonnet; 
An' a' triumphant — for your feast, 

Hae! there's your sonnet! 



XI. 

EMBRO HIE KIRK. 

The Lord Himsel' in former days 
Waled out the proper tiines for praise 
An' named the proper kind o' claes 

For folk to preach in: 
Preceese and in the chief o' ways 

Important teachin'. 

He ordered a' things, late and air'; 
He ordered folk to stand at prayer 
(Although I cannae just mind where 

He gave the warnin'), 
An' pit pomatum on their hair 

On Sabbath mornin'. 

The hale o' life by His commands 
Was ordered to a body's hands; 
But see ! this corpus juris stands 
By a' forgotten; 



358 EMBRO HIE KIRK. 

An' God's religion in a' lands 
Is deid an' rotten. 



While thus the lave o' mankind 's lost, 
O' Scotland still God maks His boast - 
Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast 

A score or tvva 
Auld wives wi' mutches an' a hoast 

Still keep His law. 

In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain, 
Douce kintry-leevin' folk retain 
The Truth — or did so aince — alane 

Of a' men leevin'; 
An' noo just twa o' them remain — 

Just Begg an' Niven. 

For noo, unfaithfii' to the Lord 
Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde; 
Her human hymn-books on the board 

She noo displays: 
An' Embro Hie Kirk 's been restored 

In popish ways. 



EMBRO HIE KIRK. 359 

O punctum iemporis for action 
To a' o' the reformin' faction, 
If yet, by ony act or paction, 

Thocht, word, or sermon. 
This dark an' damnable transaction 

Micht yet determine! 

For see — as Doctor Begg explains — 
Hoo easy 't 's dline ! a pickle weans, 
Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes 

By his instruction, 
The uncovenantit, pentit panes 

Ding to destruction. 

Up, Niven, or ower late — an' dash 
Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash; 
Let spires and pews wi' gran' stramash 

Thegether fa'; 
The rumlin' kist o' whustles smash 

In pieces sma'. 

Noo choose ye out a walie hammer; 
About the knottit buttress clam'er; 



360 BMBRO HIE KIRK. 

Alang the steep roof stoyt an' stammer, 

A gate mis- chancy; 
On the aul' spire, the bells' hie cha'mer, 

Dance your bit dancie. 

Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an' ruin, 
Wi' carnal stanes the square bestrevvin', 
Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin, 

Frae hell to heeven. 
Tell the guid vvark that baith are doin' — 

Baith Begg an' Niven. 



XII. 

THE SCOTSMAN'S RETURN FROM 
ABROAD. 

(In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr, Johnstone.) 

In mony a foreign pairt I 've been, 
An' mony an unco ferlie seen, 
Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I 
Last walkit upon Cocklerye. 
Wi' gleg, observant een, I pass't 
By sea an' land, through East an' Wast, 
And still in ilka age an' station 
Saw naething but abomination. 
In thir uncovenantit lands 
The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands 
At lack of a' sectarian fiish'n, 
An' cauld religious destitution. 
He rins, puir man, frae place to place, 
Tries a' their graceless means o' grace. 
Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk — 
This yin a stot an' thon a stirk — 
361 



362 THE SCOTSMAN'S 

A bletherin' clan, no warth a preen, 
As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen! 

At last, across the weary faem, 
Frae far, outlandish pairts I came. 
On ilka side o' me I fand 
Fresh tokens o' my native land. 
Wi' whatna joy I hailed them a' — 
The hilltaps standin' raw by raw, 
The public house, the Hielan' birks, 
And a' the bonny U. P. kirks ! 
But maistly thee, the bluid o' Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to John o' Grots, 
The king o' drinks, as I conceive it, 
Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet! 

For after years wi' a pockmantie 
Frae Zanzibar to Alicante, 
In mony a fash an' sair affliction 
I gie't as my sincere conviction — 
Of a' their foreign tricks an' pliskies, 
I maist abominate their whiskies. 
Nae doot, themsel's, they ken it weel. 
An' wi' a hash o' leemon peel. 



RETURN FROM ^BRO/ID. 363 

An' ice an' siccan filth, they ettle 
The stawsome kind o' goo to settle; 
Sic vversh apothecary's broos wi' 
As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo's wi'. 

An', man, I was a blithe hame-comer 
Whan first I syndit out my rummer. 
Ye should hae seen me then, wi' care 
The less important pairts prepare; 
Syne, weel contentit wi' it a'. 
Pour in the speerits wi' a jaw! 
I didnae drink, I didnae speak — 
I only snowkit up the reek. 
I was sae pleased therein to paidle, 
I sat an' plowtered wi' my ladle. 

An' blithe was I, the morrow's morn, 
To daunder through the stookit corn. 
And after a' my strange mishanters. 
Sit doun amang my ain dissenters. 
An', man, it was a joy to me 
The pu'pit an' the pews to see, 
The pennies dirlin' in the plate. 
The elders lookin' on in state; 



364 THE SCOTSMAN'S 

An' 'mang the first, as it befell, 
Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel' ? 

I was, and I will no deny it. 
At the first gliff a hantle tryit 
To see yoursel' in sic a station — 
It seemed a doubtfii' dispensation. 
The feelin' was a mere digression; 
For shline I understood the session, 
An' mindin Aiken an' M'Neil, 
I wondered they had dline sae weel. 
I saw I had mysel' to blame; 
For had I but remained at hame, 
Aiblins — though no ava' deservin' 't — 
They micht hae named your humble servant. 

The kirk was filled, the door was steeked; 

Up to the pu'pit ance I keeked; 

I was mair pleased than I can tell — 

It was the minister himsel' ! 

Proud, proud was I to see his face, 

After sae lang awa' frae grace. 

Pleased as I was, I 'm no deny in' 

Some maitters were not edifyin'; 

For first I fand — an' here was news! — 



RETURN FROM ABROAD. 305 

Mere hymn-books cockin' in the pews — 

A humanized abomination, 

Unfit for ony congregation. 

Syne, while I still was on the tenter, 

I scunnered at the new prezentor; 

I thocht him gesterin' an' cauld — 

A sair declension frae the auld. 

Syne, as though a' the faith was wreckit, 

The prayer was not what I 'd exspeckit. 

Himsel', as it appeared to me, 

Was no the man he iised to be. 

But just as I was growin' vext 

He waled a maist judeecious text. 

An' launchin' into his prelections, 

Swoopt, wi' a skirl, on a' defections, 

what a gale was on my speerit 

To hear the p'ints o' doctrine clearit, 
And a' the horrors o' damnation 
Set furth wi' faithfli' ministration! 
Nae shauchlin' testimony here — 
We were a' damned, an' that was clear. 

1 owned, wi' gratitude an' wonder. 
He was a pleisure to sit under. 



XIII. 

Late in the nicht in bed I lay, 
The winds were at their weary play, 
An' tirlin' wa's an' skirlin' wae 

Through heev'n they battered; — 
On-ding o' hail, on-blaff o' spray, 

The tempest blattered. 

The masoned house it dinled through; 
It dung the ship, it cowped the coo'; 
The rankit aiks it overthrew. 

Had braved a' weathers; 
The Strang sea-gleds it took an' blew 

Awa' like feathers. 

The thraes o' fear on a' were shed. 
An' the hair rose, an' slumber fled. 
An' lichts were lit an' prayers were said 

Through a' the kintry; 
An' the cauld terror clum in bed 

VVi' a' an' sindry. 
36G 



LATE IN THE NICHT. 36^ 

To hear in the pit-mirk on hie 
The brangled collieshangie flie, 
The warl' they thocht, wi' land an' sea, 

Itsel' wad cowpit; 
An' for auld aim, the smashed debris 

By God be rowpit. 

Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran, 

To folks wi' talescopes in han', 

O' ships that cowpit, winds that ran, 

Nae sign was seen, 
But the wee warl' in sunshine span 

As bricht 's a preen. 

I, tae, by God's especial grace, 
Dwall denty in a bieldy place 
Wi' hosened feet, wi' shaven face, 

Wi' dacent mainners: 
A grand example to the race 

O' tautit sinners! 

The wind may blaw, the heathen rage. 
The deil may start on the rampage; — 
The sick in bed, the thief in cage — 
What 's a' to me? 



368 LATE IN THE NICHT. 

Cosh in my house, a sober sage, 
I sit an' see. 



An' whiles the bluid spangs to my bree, 
To lie sae saft, to live sae free, 
While better men maun do an' die 

In unco places. 
" Whaur's God?'' I cry, an' " IVhae is me 

To hae sic graces ? " 

I mind the fecht the sailors keep. 
But fire or can'le, rest or sleep. 
In darkness an' the muckle deep; 

An' mind beside 
The herd that on the hills o' sheep 

Has wandered wide. 

I mind me on the hoastin' weans — 
The penny joes on causey stanes — 
The auld folk wi' the crazy banes, 

Baith auld an' puir. 
That aye maun thole the winds an' rains 

An' labour sair. 



LATE IN THE NICHT. 309 

An' whiles I'm kind o' pleased a blink, 
An' kind o' fleyed forby, to think, 
For a' my rowth o' meat an' drink 

An' waste o' crumb, 
I '11 mebbe have to thole wi' skink 

In Kingdom Come. 

For God whan jowes the Judgment bell, 
Wi' His ain Hand, His Leevin' Sel', 
Sail ryve the guid (as Prophets tell) 

Frae them that had it; 
And in the reamin' pat o' hell, 

The rich be scaddit. 

O Lord, if this indeed be sae, 
Let daw that sair an' happy day! 
Again' the warl, grawn auld an' gray, 

Up wi' your aixe ! 
An' let the puir enjoy their play — 

I '11 thole my paiks. 



XIV. 

MY CONSCIENCE! 

Of a' the ills that flesh can fear, 
The loss o' frien's, the lack o' gear, 
A yowl in' tyke, a glandered mear, 

A lassie's nonsense — 
There's just ae thing I cannae bear. 

An' that's my conscience. 

Whan day (an' a' excuse) has gane, 
An' wark is diine, an' duty's plain, 
An' to my chalmer a' my lane 

I creep apairt, 
My conscience ! hoo the yammerin' pain 

Stends to my heart ! 

A' day wi' various ends in view 
The hairsts o' time I had to pu'. 
An' made a hash wad staw a soo, 
Let be a man ! — 
370 



MY CONSCIENCE! 371 

My conscience! whan my ban's were fii', 
Whaur were ye than? 

An' there were a' the lures o' life, 
There pleesure skirlin' on the fife, 
There anger, wi' the hotchin' knife 

Ground shairp in hell — 
My conscience! — you that's like a wife! — 

Whaur was yoursel' ? 

I ken it fine: just waitin' here, 

To gar the evil waur appear. 

To clart the guid, confuse the clear, 

Mis-ca' the great. 
My conscience ! an' to raise a steer 

Whan a 's ower late. 

Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, 
Whan thieves brok' through the gear to p'ind, 
Has lain his dozened length an' grinned 

At the disaster; 
An' the morn's mornin', wud 's the wind. 

Yokes on his master. 



XV. 

TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN. 

(Whan the dear doctor, dear to a\ 
Was still aiiiang us here belaiu, 
J seb my pipes his praise to blaw 

Wi' a' my speerit ; 
But noo, Dear Doctor, he 's awa\ 
An'' ne^er can hear it.) 

By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees, 

By a' the various river-Dee's, 

In Mars and Manors 'yont the seas 

Or here at hame, 
Whaure'er there 's kindly folk to please, 

They ken your name. 

They ken your name, they ken your tyke, 
They ken the honey from your byke; 
But mebbe after a' your fyke, 
(The truth to tell) 
372 



TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN. 373 

It's just your honest Rab they like, 
An' no yoursel'. 

As at the gowff, some canny play'r 
Should tee a common ba' wi' care — 
Should flourish and deleever fair 

His souple shintie — 
An' the ba' rise into the air, 

A leevin' Untie: 

Sae in the game we writers play, 
There comes to some a bonny day, 
When a dear ferlie shall repay 

Their years o' strife. 
An' like your Rab, their things o' clay, 

Spreid wings o' life. 

Ye scarce deserved it, I'm afraid — 
You that had never learned the trade. 
But just some idle mornin' strayed 

Into the schiile, 
An' picked the fiddle up an' played 

Like Neil himsel'. 



374 TO DOCTOR JOHN BROIVN. 

Your e'e was gleg, your fingers dink; 
Ye didna fash yoursel' to think, 
But wove, as fast as puss can link, 

Your denty wab : — 
Ye stapped your pen into the ink^ 

An' there was Rab! 

Sinsyne, whaure'er your fortune lay 
By dowie den, by canty brae. 
Simmer an' winter, nicht an' day, 

Rab was aye wi' ye; 
An' a' the folk on a' the way 

Were blithe to see ye. 

O sir, the gods are kind indeed, 
An' hauld ye for an honoured heid, 
That for a wee bit clarkit screed 

Sae weel reward ye, 
An' lend — puir Rabbie bein' deid — 

His ghaist to guard ye. 

For though, whaure'er yoursel' may be, 
We 've just to turn an' glisk a wee, 
An' Rab at heel we 're shiire to see 
Wi' gladsome caper: — 



7o^ 






1 he bogle of a bogle, he — 
A ghaist o' paper! 

And as the aiild farrand hero sees 

In hell a bogle Hercules, 

Pit there the lesser deid to please, 

While he himsel' 
Dwalls wi' the muckle gods at ease 

Far raised frae hell: 

Sae the true Rabbie far has gane 

On kindlier business o' his ain 

Wi' aulder frien's; an' his breist-bane 

An' stumpie tailie. 
He birstles at a new hearth stane 

By James and Ailie. 



XVI. 

r 's an owercome sooth for age an' youth 
And it brooks wi' nae denial, 
lat the dearest friends are the auldest friends 
^nd the young are just on trial. 

're 's a rival bauld wi' young an' auld 
nd it 's him that has bereft me; 
the surest friends are the auldest friends 
id the maist o' mine hae left me. 

are kind hearts still, for friends to fill 
I fools to take and break them; 
e nearest friends are the auldest friends 
the grave 's the place to seek them. 



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